A Little Too Much Of A Good Thing
by Straightjacketed
Summary: What happens when Mabel wakes up one morning to find herself face to face with an identical clone of herself... and the copier hasn't been used at all? Utter confusion. Now, Mabel and the Mystery Shack team have to figure out how the clone got here, what she really wants, and most importantly of all, if Gravity Falls can withstand two Mabels at once...
1. The Early Birthday Present

A/N: Aaaand here we are, ladies and gentlemen! A new story. This one's been in the works for quite a while, and I admit... it's mainly motivated by the need to write something a little happier for a change.

As some of you may know, I'm a big fan of grim storylines, and some of you have also let me know that this can be a bit much. Well, if it helps, I can get a bit worn down by my own writing style as well. In many ways, some of my earlier stories were fuelled by my need to get certain feelings off my chest, and in some cases, that involved putting some very dark ideas to paper. This time though, after all my medical dramas and other frustrations, I feel the need to put out something cheerier, something brighter, something a little bit more innocent. Yes, there will be a little darkness, but not the unrelenting deluge of misery that I wrote in the past. If anything, I want to write something that might actually seem like an episode of Gravity Falls.

So here we are. Of course, you'll have to be the judge of how well it goes. So, without further ado, my new story: read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls is not mine. Huge surprise, I know.

* * *

Midnight was a special time in Gravity Falls.

As with most things in folklore and myth, it took on its own peculiar reality in that strange little corner of Roadkill County: it was often in the evenings that Gravity Fall's strangest inhabitants left their shadowy dens to explore the town that still squatted obliviously on their doorstep, and it was in the darkest hour of the night that the supernatural truly felt at home on the almost-mundane streets. Steve tiptoed peacefully across the fringes of the forest and swept away unwanted vehicles left offroad. Portal-potties occasionally materialized on street-corners, waiting for unlucky drunks. Scampfires, Kill-Billies and other lesser-known forms of life hunted along the outskirts of town. Gnomes normally hesitant to wander beyond their burrows roamed freely, even sneaking into grocery stores and stealing entire shelves of jam. More than once, sensitive minds had been gripped by terrifying dreams of unearthly beings and Faustian bargains…

And it all began at midnight.

But tonight, the witching hour was even quieter than usual, for Weirdmageddon had come and gone, and both the townsfolk and the supernatural inhabitants of Gravity Falls were still licking their collective wounds. After everything they'd suffered under Bill Cipher's reign, nobody wanted anything more mysterious than their usual routine.

Worse still, the streetlights were still on the fritz following the events of the last few days, plunging the silent streets into coffinlike darkness; in that gloom, even the lights of houses and storefronts seemed curiously muted, as if the shadows were reaching in from the periphery and slowly smothering all illumination.

Perhaps because of this – or maybe just the aftereffects of Weirdmageddon – it seemed that just about everyone in town was fast asleep, even the nocturnal creatures of the supernatural. Insomnia was unknown tonight, and not a single bed remained unslept in: Gravity Falls and all its inhabitants lay in deepest slumber, dreaming pleasantly for a change. Even the Manotaurs were tucked up tight in bed, snoring like erupting volcanoes in the depths of their man-caves.

Nowhere was this truer than the Mystery Shack.

By now, the building was almost fully repaired, and its inhabitants had long since recovered from the events of the Oddpocalypse. Even Grunkle Stan's memory was back in one piece. And after all the effort they'd put into recuperating and helping Stan to remember, none of them were in the mood to stay up: by now, Stan, Ford, Dipper, Mabel _and_ Waddles were fast asleep in their respective beds.

None of them were awake to see the figure slowly creeping towards the Shack.

He was dressed all in grey: from the wide-brimmed Homberg shadowing his face to the imposing longcoat draped over his shoulders, from the scarf that shrouded his mouth to the dull silvery shades that hid his eyes, from the ashen silk tie wrapped around his collar to the leather gloves that encased his spidery hands, everything about him was drab, colourless grey. Every piece of his attire blended seamlessly with the thick, billowing fog that seemed to have followed him up the road… or perhaps he _was_ the fog, for more than once, his body seemed to swirl and flow, even turn transparent. Stranger still was the fact that he didn't walk at all, but instead glided eerily along the pathway, his perfectly-laced shoes dangling almost ten inches off the ground.

Had anyone asked his name, he would have said that he was only a licensed professional.

On past jobs, some had even dubbed him the Grey Professional.

But of course, nobody asked his name tonight; he'd chosen the hour well. Everyone was asleep… and everyone was oblivious.

The Grey Professional hovered to a halt just outside the Mystery Shack and peered curiously through its topmost windows, silently assessing the two figures asleep behind the glass.

Thanks to the dossier he'd procured from the Time Police, he knew everything there was to know about these impressive siblings. Outwitting a Shapeshifter, seizing victory in Globnar, surviving Weirdmageddon, even defeating Bill Cipher himself… yes, Dipper and Mabel had been through a lot this summer. It was astonishing to think of how much they'd accomplished in such a short space of time… and how strange that they didn't appear to be much more than ordinary twelve-year-olds, apart from Dipper's weird birthmark.

Of course, they wouldn't be twelve-year-olds for long. In just two days' time, they were due a birthday.

Lucky number thirteen.

And befitting such a momentous occasion, it was his duty – his job, really – to prepare a very special birthday gift for Dipper and Mabel Pines, something that would make this celebration one that they'd never forget.

Drawing a bulky metal cylinder from the depths of his coat, the Grey Professional began pressing buttons on the keypad built into its side, his long fingers dancing elegantly across the keys as he entered the programming necessary for the creation of a stable wormhole. A moment later, a swirling blue portal began to form in the air above him, much smaller than he was, but more than adequate to the task of delivering this important present to the Pines twins.

And as he watched, _something_ began creeping through the wormhole…

* * *

Back in the attic bedroom, Mabel Pines sat bolt upright; absently rubbing a mosquito bite on the back of her neck, she blinked, and tried to figure out what had roused her from sleep. Then, tumbling awkwardly out of bed, she stumbled over to Dipper and shook him awake as best as she could.

"Whaassamatar?" he yawned. "Whaaatimeizzit?"

"Uhhh… ten past midnight."

"Hmrghsdgobaktosleep, Mabel."

"I just need to know, did you hear anything just now? You didn't see any weird lights or anything like that?"

Dipper groaned. "I didn't see or hear anything. Why are you asking me, though? I thought I was the one who was supposed to be looking out for hidden clues and mysteries all the time."

"I don't know. I just… woke up feeling really weird. The old goose over my grave, y'know?"

"Eh, I've had that too. Did you have any weird dreams?"

"No. I don't think so, anyway. What do you think?"

"Possibly something, could be nothing… we'll find out in the morning. You okay to go back to sleep?"

Mabel yawned; now that the initial adrenaline surge had worn off, tiredness was catching up with her again. "I guess so," she mumbled wearily, stumbling back to her bed. "Sorry about waking you up over all this; it sounds really stupid now that I think about it."

"That's okay, Mabel. Sleep well."

"You too, bro-bro. See you in the morning…"

* * *

Invisible amidst the fog, the Grey Professional watched the siblings return to bed, barely keeping the smirk off his face as they did so.

Neither of the twins had any idea what had just happened; neither of them had noticed that something was noticeably different… but they would.

This was going to be the best present either of them could have possibly imagined, and it was going to arrive days in advance of the happy date. By the time the party finally rolled around, the Pines Family would be happier than they'd ever been in their entire lives.

And, of course, he'd be rewarded handsomely. Oh yes, most handsomely indeed. The grey man knew that the multiverse offered too many possibilities to plan for the future, but in his line of work, payment was the one certainty to be found amidst the chaos… just as long as he remained true to professional standards.

Once he was certain that everything was in place and ready to begin, the Grey Professional softly turned and hovered away across the horizon, leaving no trace of his arrival except for a few faint wisps of fog. Had anyone been able to hear his voice, they might have heard him softly humming "Happy Birthday" as he disappeared into the gloom – though of course, there was no-one to hear but the gift.

He'd lit the fuse.

Now it was time to watch the fireworks.

* * *

It was the knocking at the door that finally woke her.

Maybe it was just because she'd woken up during the night, but Mabel found herself laboriously clawing her way back towards consciousness with all the speed and grace of a drowning swimmer tangled up in a pool cover. It took several minutes to answer the morning questions she normally blitzed through without a second thought (who am I, what is this place, why am I here, what the hell was I doing last night), and when the time came for her to rise from the pillows, she couldn't even find the energy to do much more than open her eyes. Worse still, her head was currently pounding with all the force of a kettle drum being kicked over the edge of a cliff.

After a ten-second delay, two extremely crusty eyelids creaked open, and she immediately cringed in pain as searing white daylight poured in on her. It took a while for her to adjust to the contrast, but once she was well enough to pay more attention to something other than daylight, she happened to glance at her alarm clock, and realized with a jolt of shock that it was almost 9 AM: she'd overslept by two hours.

Last night, she'd made plans to get up _early-_early and spend the morning on party preparations with Dipper – and after all the adventures they'd failed to share in the days leading up to Weirdmageddon, the two of them desperately needed all the time together they could possibly get. She'd _promised_ to spend time with him on these plans, even promised to wake him up at the crack of dawn… but somehow, she'd managed to sleep through her alarm.

It wasn't just embarrassing, it was an outright failure of her own force of personality: up until now, it was Dipper who suffered from sleepless nights and woke up late, while Mabel had always woken up fresh as a daisy.

In fact, the only thing that made her feel slightly better about the whole thing was the fact that Dipper was even sleepier than she was right now: he was still fast asleep with the covers pulled over his head, refusing to awaken even while someone was knocking at the door.

_Oh right, I should probably answer that at some point._

Lurching clumsily out of bed and shambling across the floor like a zombie, Mabel slowly made her way to the door. Once again, though, she barely had the energy to manage this simple task: within five steps, she fell flat on her face, waking up Waddles and prompting immediate concerned snufflings.

Even after she'd hauled herself upright, she only went on stumbling over her belongings or tripping over her own feet. At one point, she somehow ended up nodding off in mid-walk, only to wake up waggling her arm in the general direction of the door handle as if expecting it to open out of pity.

_What's wrong with me today? _She wondered. _Am I sick or something?_

She gave herself a little shake, telling herself that everything would be okay once she had a shot of Mabel Juice… but first, she'd have to speak to Grunkle Stan or whoever was knocking at the door. So, finally managing to grab the door handle, she swung the door open wide, and instantly found herself face-to-face with-

Had anyone been standing next to her in that moment, they would have actually heard the long, drawn-out crash of Mabel's train of thought messily derailing. This was not who'd she'd been expecting, to say the least; in fact, for a moment she was certain that the figure standing in the doorway wasn't there at all. This had to be a hallucination, or a dream – or maybe the work of the invisible wizard again.

She blinked rapidly, expecting her visitor to have disappeared when she looked again. But no: there it stood, real as ever.

"Hi there, Mabel!" shouted the apparition.

"Who… who _are you?"_ Mabel demanded.

"Don't you recognize me? I'm Mabel!"

And so she was.

Impossible though it seemed, this stranger had the exact same features as Mabel: the same height, the same build, same exuberant voice, same hip-length brown hair and the same brown eyes lit up by the same excitable stare. She was even wearing the same clothes she liked to wear, though she'd mercifully ignored the shooting star sweater Mabel had been planning to wear today, and had instead settled for a deep blue sweater studded with tiny stars instead.

In fact, the only feature of hers this Other Mabel _didn't_ have was the distinctive smile: true, she smiled as much as the genuine article, but whoever or whatever this stranger really was, she clearly wasn't wearing braces.

Even Waddles seemed to recognize her, and was already excitedly sniffing her shoes and oinking contentedly as the grinning doppelganger patted his ears.

All of this would have been a lot easier to deal with if Mabel had actually been able to point it out, though; unfortunately, all she could say was "B-but _I'm _Mabel!"

"I know!" said the Other Mabel. "Let's be friends." And with that she flung her arms around Mabel and hugged her tightly.

There was a long pause as the hug dragged on.

"But what are you doing here?" Mabel asked, finally forcing her way free of her double's arms. "_How_ are you here? Did we just start using the old copier again and forgot all about it?"

"I'm not made of paper, silly! Believe me, I'm just as fleshy – and just as _IRRESISTABLE-_" Here, the Other Mable waved her arms inside the sleeves of her sweater like a runaway windmill, "-As the real thing!"

"Yeah, I can see that. But if you're not from the copier, then where did you come from?"

"I don't know!" said the clone joyously. "Isn't that just great? I woke up a few minutes ago just outside your room and I didn't know how I got here or what I was doing, and the day's only gonna get better from here! Maybe Grunkle Ford can figure it out. For now, it's time we had some serious fun – just you, me and Waddles! The three of us are gonna have ourselves a day on the town! Fashion, art supplies, ice-cream cones and all the friends we can possibly meet! You are going to have a big glass of Mabel Juice and you're going to forget how tired you are, and then get good and hyped for today, because we are gonna have _FUN!"_

In spite of her confusion, Mabel found herself agreeing with the sentiment: she'd been asleep for far too long anyway, and after all the time they'd spent making repairs to the Mystery Shack and preparing for the party, didn't she deserve a little time off? Besides, wouldn't a clone be the one girl on the planet who knew exactly how to have fun the way she did?

And yet…

"But I don't even know what to call you!" she protested weakly.

"Just call me Mabel2! That's all I am, and that's all I need to be, because today is gonna be all about us! Now… it's time for breakfast! Race you downstairs!"

"Shouldn't we wake Dipper?"

"Nah, why do that? He's tired from all the mysteries; we'll let him sleep for now – it'll be such a nice surprise for him when we get back. Now come on! Last one downstairs has to explain everything to Soos!"

* * *

A/N: And there we have it, folks! The first chapter. Feel free to furnish me with your opinions on the story, theories on what you think's going to happen next, and what you make of Mabel's new clone!

**This chapter's soundtrack choice is _Battle Strategy Conference_ from Final Fantasy IX.**

And now for the code:

**Nlmvb nzpvh gsv dliow tl ilfmw  
Gsv uvvh ziv kzrw yb nrmwh fmhlfmw  
Gsv wlli rh hsfg, gsv kirav rh dlm  
Yfg xzm blf tfvhh dszg sv szh wlmv?**


	2. Bewilderment At Breakfast

A/N: Aaaaaaand we're back, ladies and gents! A big thank-you to all my viewers, reviewers, favouriters and followers: you give me the strength to continue!

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter. Feel free to furnish you with any theories you might have on, along with any critiques of those typos that continuously creep up on me. Read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls is still not mine.

* * *

Soos blinked. "Dude," he said flatly, "Am I seeing double?"

"If you're seeing the same things _I'm_ seeing, Soos, double vision's the least of your worries. Right now, I'm wondering if I'm having a stroke. Can anyone else smell burnt toast, or is that just another symptom?"

"We're in the middle of breakfast, Stanley. You're fine. Granted, the toaster is currently on fire, so we should probably get that looked at sooner or later… once we've finished looking at this duplicate, of course…"

In the end, nobody was sure who ended up arriving downstairs first. Somehow, Mabel2 had managed to hype Mabel up with enough adrenaline to not only get changed in record time, but to send herself sliding along the banister with a jubilant scream of "I'VE GOT A _**CLOOOOOOOOOONE!"**_ somehow managing to keep pace with her doppelganger's wild gallop down the stairs.

Needless to say, the two of them had caused quite a stir when they'd staggered to a halt in the middle of the kitchen with Waddles following. For the next few minutes, the two of them had been giggling like maniacs and totally oblivious to the stunned stares of all present, but in the end, the pause had finally been broken by an avalanche of questions from the audience.

"What happened?"

"Who's this?"

"Who's who?"

"But… _how?!"_

"And she was just there when you woke up?"

"The copier hasn't been used, then?"

"You didn't see any weird eggs or cocoons in the vicinity?"

"She can drink stuff without melting, right?"

Of course, everyone had their particular reactions: Grunkle Stan looked on with a mixture of bemusement and world-weary sarcasm; Grunkle Ford dug out one of the many mysterious gadgets he kept in his coat pockets and went to work on analysing the Mabel clone; and Soos had simply stared in utter bamboozlement – until he took up the fire extinguisher and went to work on the burning toaster.

Through it all, Mabel2 blitzed around the kitchen, serving up a sumptuous breakfast of maple sauce-drenched pancakes and mega-shots of juice for her original counterpart. When she wasn't busy with this, she was busy saying hello to the rest of the family, exchanging hugs and high-fives with the kind of enthusiasm that only the real Mabel could have possessed.

In between mouthfuls of pancake, Mabel could only observe the antics of her clone with a mixture of amusement and pride. However she'd been created, the double definitely had the wild energy and the explosive affection down pat. From the looks of things, she also had all of Mabel's memories, for she even managed to perfectly replicate the elaborate fistbump that she and Soos had devised at the start of fishing season. It was all such a joy to watch in action, it was almost enough to make her forget the sense of tiredness bearing down on her.

Meanwhile, Grunkle Ford was still studying Mabel2, albeit with some difficulty: busy as she was, she barely stood still long enough to be examined, and Ford was forced to follow her awkwardly around the kitchen while trying to keep her in range of his scanning device. It was even trickier than it sounded, for judging by the disappointed bleeps and bloops from the device in Ford's hand, Mabel2 kept dancing out of the way every time he tried to perform a scan on her.

After no less than five false starts, Ford finally announced, "Well, I think we can safely say that Mabel2 is most definitely _not _made of paper."

"I'll drink to that!" said Mabel2, pouring herself a glass of Mabel Juice and guzzling it with gusto.

"Other than that, there's not much I can figure out without further testing: diagnostic scans confirm that Mabel2 is a perfect genetic copy of the original Mabel, but I still can't tell how she was created. I'd suggest she was grown rather than timescooped, which might explain the lack of braces, but there's no sign of how all her memories were replicated as well. Tell me, Mabel2, do you remember anything from before you arrived here?"

"Nope! I just woke up in the corridor right outside Mabel's room, and there I was!"

"And that's it?" asked Stan. "No flying saucers, no weird machines, no giant hamster cages owned by sketchy businessmen? Nothing like that?"

"Sorry."

"Jeez, Dipper is gonna have a field day with this when he wakes up."

"What about you, Mabel?" Ford asked. "Has anyone had access to your blood at any point in the summer?"

"Nope."

"Have you been to any hospitals or medical clinics since you arrived in Roadkill County?"

"Only once or twice; we had to take Dipper to the hospital after what Bill did to him at the puppet show, but that's about it."

"You weren't given any weird blood tests while you were there? You weren't in the presence of machinery that looked like it wouldn't belong in a human hospital?"

"Double nope."

"You haven't seen any strange people checking your belongings for DNA samples?"

"No, and I'm pretty sure I'd remember that."

"You haven't experienced any unexplained symptoms in the last few days? Headaches, bruises, puncture wounds or anything like that?"

Mabel thought for a moment, recalling how tired she'd felt when she'd awoken – and how tired she still felt. "I… I did feel a little off this morning," she said, tentatively.

"In what way?"

"Well, just… really, really tired. Maybe I'm coming down with the flu or something, but I just feel like I've been up all night with no Mabel Juice and no sugar."

Ford's brow wrinkled in consternation. "Hmm. If that's a sign of cloning in action, it's not one _I'm _familiar with. I mean, timescooping results in chronic disorientation and nausea, biological cloning would leave needle marks, most forms of magical cloning require extensive samples of hair and blood, digital cloning would necessitate saliva sampling along with a digital incorporator and a synthetic body, hard-light holograms need a direct brain interface intense enough to leave bruises around the temples… and all in all, I'm reasonably sure I've never heard of a cloning method with no symptoms apart from _tiredness._"

"Dude, what if this is something to do with Bill?" said Soos.

But Ford only shook his head. "In the last few days, there's been no unusual activity from the statue or any of the other artefacts he left behind. Whatever created this clone, it wasn't Cipher. That said, I won't know the truth behind the cloning process until I've performed some in-depth blood testing on both the clone and the original-"

"Sorry, Grunkle Ford!" said Mabel2 loudly. "But Mabel and me have some serious _us_-time to get on with! We'll be back for the tests once we've had some fun!"

And with that, she grabbed Mabel by the sleeve, yanked her out of her seat and began dragging her towards the open door with Waddles in hot pursuit.

"But where are you going?"

"Into town! I've got to introduce myself to a lot of people – but don't worry, though! I'll be on my best behaviour, I swear: Mabel and me are gonna be _everyone's_ best friend by the end of the day! Isn't that right, Mabes?"

"Absolutely, Mabes2!" Mabel laughed.

She was officially having the time of her life now: as tired as she was, even she couldn't ignore the rush of adrenaline flooding her veins – the sense that nothing could possibly stop her. She'd felt this way before on many of her art projects and grand adventures, but this was far purer and much more exhilarating than ever before. Was this the way Dipper felt when he was tagging along with her? If so, it was almost as good as being her old exuberant self.

"You see? I don't know about you, but I think we could all use a lot more fun in our lives, and today's the perfect day to go out and get it!" Mabel2 was talking at a mile a minute now – Mabel's own classic method of escaping conversations before anyone had time to say 'no.'

"That sound good? Okay, buh-byyyyyyyyyee!"

"Wait just a-"

But the two of them were already out the door, laughing hysterically as they sprinted away.

* * *

"Well," said Stan. "_That_ could have gone much better."

Ford sighed deeply. "So much for taking samples," he grumbled. "At least we know that Mabel's personality's been replicated as well."

"Maybe. Either that or Mabel2's faking it."

"What do you mean? Why would she fake the original's personality?"

"I don't know. Maybe 2's not even a clone at all."

"You think maybe the Shapeshifter's escaped, then?" asked Soos.

Ford shook his head. "If that was Shifty, he would have been able to copy Mabel's braces. Besides, if he'd really broken out of the Bunker, the Shapeshifter would probably have killed all of us and gone bounding off into the wilderness in search of new shapes to mimic."

"Alright then," Stan plunged on. "Maybe she's from a parallel universe, like the ones you told me about the other day. Maybe Mabel2's from another dimension, fell through a hole in reality or something like that. I mean, that's possible, right?"

"Uh, no. Interdimensional physics tend to react very badly to different versions of the same person interacting even on the most cursory level."

"Badly?"

"According to the parallel version of Fiddleford I met during my travels, a single meeting between alternate selves would be enough to destroy the entire universe the encounter took place in; there are exceptions of course, loopholes and quirks of physics that can _potentially _allow different versions of the same person to interact – sometimes dozens of them at once – but none of those unique conditions exist in this reality at this time. Suffice it to say that if Mabel _had_ met her other self this morning, we would have all ceased to exist prior to breakfast."

An awkward pause settled over the kitchen, broken only by the sound of Soos frantically prodding himself in the chest just to make sure he was still there.

"No," Ford continued, oblivious to the existential terror he'd unwittingly inspired. "The scans I've made so far all confirm that Mabel2 is definitely a clone… but I still can't work out how she was created – and why."

"And if she's any danger to Mabel," said Stan.

"I hate to say it, but the thought had crossed my mind."

Soos looked blankly from Stan to Ford in bewilderment. "How could Mabel2 be dangerous, Mr Pines?" he asked. "Like you said, she's a perfect copy of Mabel. If she's really a Mabel clone, she wouldn't hurt anyone, just like the real deal!"

"Apart from the time she took a spray can to Bill Cipher's eyeball? Also, didn't you tell me about the time Mabel blew sparkles in _your_ eyes just so she and Dipper could access the portal?"

"Well yeah, dude… but that's different: they thought I was standing between them and saving the world at the time. Plus, Bill kinda had it coming."

"No arguments here, believe me," Ford chuckled. "But the trouble is, there's too many mysteries right now for us to get comfortable: we don't know where the clone came from, how she was created, who created her and why; we don't know how the clone obtained Mabel's DNA, we don't know if there were any unusual side-effects to the cloning process – we don't even know if Mabel2 is going to _stay_ identical or start suffering genetic degradation. For all we know, she's going to be growing claws and fangs by the time the day's over."

"Or maybe she's using Mabel for something nasty," said Stan grimly. "If you ask me, this whole thing has 'scam' written all over it."

"What makes you say that?"

"It takes a scam artist to spot a scam artist. This girl says she can't remember anything before waking up in the corridor upstairs, but she was wearing _Mabel's_ clothes: I've seen Mabel wearing that blue sweater and skirt before. You say the clone wouldn't have been able to copy her braces, right?"

"Yes, that's right: from the looks of things, only elements that were part of Mabel's biological makeup can be duplicated. But why do you ask?"

"Because if that's the case, whoever created Mabel2 wouldn't have been able to copy the clothing either. So, however she got into the Mystery Shack, she'd have needed to _steal_ Mabel's clothes – and to do that, she'd have had to sneak into the attic, raid the wardrobe, sneak back out again, and pretend like nothing happened. Whatever the clone's really up to, she's already lied to Mabel, stolen from her without admitting to it or apologising, and now she's run off before we could start digging up dirt on her. So, not doing too well when it comes to trust."

Ford blinked. "Stanley," he said quietly, "Has anyone ever told you that you're brilliant?"

"No, but thanks anyway."

"But she hasn't hurt Mabel, dudes," Soos protested. "Like you said, she could have done that a long time ago if she really wanted to."

Ford took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. "And that's another thing I've got to find out: why this clone is here and what she really wants. Maybe she's just a runaway from a clone lab, like Many Times or whatever they were-"

"Sev'ral Timez."

"Right, right. Sev'ral Timez. If she's anything like them, escaped from an underground cloning laboratory, we can classify her as underhanded but otherwise harmless. However, it's just as likely that she's an imperfect remote-scan clone with just enough personality traits copied from the original to pass as the original but not all, in which case we should probably worry. Believe me, you'd be amazed at just how many ways that gaps in personality copies can be filled in by psychopathy."

"In the meantime, someone's got to keep an eye on the Mabels; even if 2 isn't dangerous, we're gonna need to find a way of making sure she comes back – I mean, if she's a runaway, maybe she'll try hightailing it outta there if she feels the heat closing in on her."

Soos immediately held up a volunteering hand. "I stand ready to help, dudes," he intoned solemnly.

It was all Stan could do to hide his sigh of relief. "Perfect," he said. "You drive around town and keep an eye out for the two Mabels; if you see them, don't try and catch them, just tail them nice and slow, and make sure they don't get into trouble. Only try the whole 'capture the clone' business unless you absolutely have to – if she looks like she isn't going to return to the Mystery Shack. Keep your phone on and your eyes open, Soos. Is that clear?"

"Yes sir, Mr Pines!"

Soos snapped a salute and hurried away, almost knocking the door off its hinges in his hurry to reach the parking lot.

And in the silence that followed, Stan asked, "Just what kind of samples did you need for your tests, Ford?"

"Oh, blood would have been the best option, but if all else fails, I could make do with hair strands, skin flakes, or even saliva."

"And do you have to worry about sample contamination or any of the usual crap that comes up with forensic evidence?"

"Not with the level of technology _I'm _working with."

At long last, a smile began inching across Stan's face. "Ford," he chuckled, "There's one other part of Mabel's personality that the clone's got nailed to a T."

"What's that?"

Grinning wildly, Stan held up the empty glass that Mabel2 had been drinking from, now sporting a slight smudge across the rim where her lips had touched it.

"In all the time I've known her, that girl has never bothered to rinse her plates…"

* * *

A/N: This chapter's soundtrack choice is **Kate** by Ben Folds Five.

**Orhgvm gl gsv yfaarmt lu gsv srev  
Gsv hlfmw gszg nzpvh blf uvvo zorev  
Mld hvg blfi gilfyovw nrmwh zg vzhv  
Zmw ml nliv jfvhgrlmh, ru blf kovzhv**

Up next - a big day on the town! Theories and speculation are welcome!


	3. The Promise Of Happiness

A/N: Aaaaaand I'm back!

By now, some of you might be thinking _"Straightjacketed, where's the horrible, morbid twist to the story? This seems unusually chirpy by your usual standards - you haven't even featured a villain achieving some kind of obscene victory yet!"_ Well, don't worry: I am doing my best to make a happier story, but rest assured, there will be a few teensy tiny dark elements here and there. I'm not going to be piling misery upon misery like I was in A Special Kind Of Isolation.

Believe me, your guesses as to what might happen next are very welcome: I _**love **_your theories and detailed opinions.

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: _Gravity Falls _is not mine.

* * *

The next three hours passed in a blur of utterly ridiculous escapades, punctuated by long drawn-out bursts of helpless giggling.

Looking back, Mabel was at a loss as to how any of it had happened, or even who'd been making the decisions for most of it, but in the end, everything that had happened that morning combined into one colossal mass of pure, unadulterated fun.

She recalled that the adventure had begun not long after they'd exited the Mystery Shack at high speed: the two of them had finally stopped running at the top of a hill just outside town, and on realizing just how high up they were, decided to lie on their backs and see which of them could roll all the way to the bottom first. Naturally, this all ended with the two of them slumped in a heap at the base of the hill with dozens of leaves and bits of grass caught in their hair, hopelessly dizzy and helplessly laughing as Waddles trotted to a halt beside them.

Once they'd recovered, they'd headed straight into town. Mabel2 had cheekily suggested that she be introduced as the long-lost third Pines Twin ("Grunkle Ford would probably say that this isn't how twins work," 2 had gleefully proclaimed, "but he isn't here to say it, so what the heck!"); as such, they'd immediately had the time of their lives surprising, shocking and downright bewildering people with their claims of long-lost relatives appearing out of nowhere. For good measure, they'd changed Mabel2's name on every single meeting: one minute, she'd been Madeline, the next she'd been Mary-Jane, the next Melinda, and the alliterative names had only continued from there.

And they'd continued this with almost everyone they met, from familiar faces around town to complete strangers: whoever they bumped into, Mabel2 was on the spot at a moment's notice, shaking hands, hugging, high-fiving, fist-bumping and throwing herself into the role of long-lost twin with such fervour that it had taken all of Mabel's energy not to burst out laughing.

Occasionally, they'd swapped roles and sweaters, then pretended that _Mabel_ was the long-lost sister. If anything, it had been even harder to keep from laughing then, what with all the invented names she'd gone by and the silly voices she'd used, not to mention the increasingly-ridiculous "secret" handshakes she'd exchanged with the victims of this little prank. Mabel2 had applauded all of it, cheering her on for every single person they'd successfully fooled.

But after about thirty thoroughly-bamboozled passers-by, they'd gotten bored with wandering the streets and made a beeline for the busiest parts of town, where all the best attractions could be found. It had taken a while to decide on where to go first, so they'd stopped to get some drinks and relax while they made up their minds.

Well, Mabel had relaxed; Mabel2 had done her best to make cola shoot out of Mabel's nose by continuing her introductions gag with unsuspecting passers-by.

Their first port of call had ultimately been the video arcade, where they played a few rounds of the most ridiculous dance-off game they could find using whatever spare change they had in their pockets. Thankfully, Hoedown Hero had long since been repaired, and so the two had a whale of a time – with Waddles occasionally joining in. They'd finished up with mostly tied matches, though Mabel had narrowly came out on top.

Next, they cruised the clothing stores, trying on the most outlandish, the most garish outfits they could find – each of them be carefully photographed of course. For good measure, they'd followed this up by brainstorming how Mabel could design something even more ludicrous, betting that she could make it work using nothing but some multi-coloured balls of wool. She'd even proved their own point by improvising some truly spectacular "earrings" of the same kind of sequins she'd once used to bedazzle her face with.

Then they went to the movie theatre, and here the two of them got up to mischief that Grunkle Stan would have been proud of: Mabel2 lured the clerks away with a faux sales pitch involving megaphones and homemade signs, and while they were chasing her around the building, Mabel and Waddles snuck inside, took a seat, and waited for Mabel2 to double back and sneak in after her. It had been a wonderful movie as well, and the fact that the theatre had been almost empty except for the three of them had only made the whole thing more glorious.

In fact, the only confusion was to how the clone had somehow managed to outrun both the clerks and the guards, _and _manage to keep them so preoccupied that none of them had made it back to the theatre by the time the movie ended. When asked, Mabel2 just winked and said "trade secret, Mabes; let's just say I can be very persuasive and leave it at that."

After forty-five glorious minutes spent throwing popcorn at the screen, they decided to give the whole thing a miss at 11:50 and adjourn to Greasy's Diner for a well-deserved lunch – just to see if they could repeat the trick and see the rest of the movie later that day.

But as they began gently traipsing across the road towards the familiar log-shaped diner, the adrenaline of the last few hours finally began to wear off; and as the earlier sense of fatigue began setting in, Mabel found herself pondering questions that she hadn't considered for some time – questions that she couldn't help voicing.

"Where did you come from, Mabel2?" she asked quietly, as they ground to a halt on the other side of the road. "Why would someone make a clone of me?"

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters! I mean, you've shown me such a good time since I woke up this morning; I'd at least like to know why it happened."

"Awwww," Mabel2 cooed. "Does Mabel not think she's good enough for a good time? Oh, poor baby…" Giggling, she pinched Mabel's cheeks. "Don't worry, though! Mabel's going to relearn self-esteem, isn't she? Yes she is, yes she is!"

Gently swatting her double's hands away, Mabel laughingly continued: "I'm just saying, Dipper's gonna want to know what happened. I mean, he'll be so disappointed he missed out on the fun _and_ the big mystery."

"Oh, I don't know about that: there's still plenty of fun and mystery to go around. Besides, whatever happens, he'll be happy you enjoyed it. After all, he'll always be there for you one way or another. But," she added, "If you really want to know why I'm here, well…"

"Yes?"

"Everything happens for a reason, Mabel: birds fly, fish swim, cars drive past us in weird bursts of speed, Toby Determined steps off the curb without looking-"

"Wait, _what?"_

There was a pained yelp from somewhere behind them.

As one, they turned around to find Toby Determined sprawled in the gutter next to a hastily-stopped pickup truck, bedraggled but unhurt apart from a couple of nasty scrapes and cuts across his hands. Of course, seeing Toby injured or embarrassed wasn't all that uncommon; in fact, to a few particularly sadistic locals, it was almost a spectator sport in its own right.

Much more surprising was the fact that the pickup truck was being driven by Soos, of all people.

Once everyone had calmed down and finished apologizing to each other, the story had eventually become clear: Soos had been pulling out from the curb at some speed, Toby had been moving to cross the road without looking, had stuck his head out at _exactly_ the wrong moment, and had accidentally smacked headfirst into Soos's right-hand side mirror.

On the upside, neither Toby nor the pickup truck had sustained permanent damage, so there wasn't any need to swap insurance details, call an ambulance or notify Sherriff Blubs.

"But what were you doing out here, Soos?" Mabel2 asked. "Didn't Grunkle Stan say he had some work for you at the Shack?"

The handyman blinked rapidly. "Oh, uh… he did, dude, he did. Um, that's exactly what I'm doing out here. Mr Pines sent me out to run a few errands around town."

"Like what?"

"Errrrr…"

Mabel2 patted Soos' hand. "It's alright, Soos; you don't have to keep any secrets. If it's birthday preparations, just say so and we'll leave it at that. Right, Mabel?"

Mabel nodded automatically; she didn't know why her clone was laying on the sweetness and light so thickly for something this trivial, but it was definitely a masterclass of persuasion at work. But though he clearly wanted to talk, the deer-in-the-headlights look refused to leave Soos' face, and for the next few seconds, he could only stammer helplessly.

"You know," said Mabel2, "I coulda sworn I saw your truck passing us once or twice about an hour ago. And again a little while before that. I mean, I don't know if you were actually going anywhere – it looked as if you were just driving up and down the street. But hey, I guess I must've been imagining that! I mean," she added impishly, "that'd mean you were _following_ us, and you'd never be that sneaky around your friends, right?"

Soos floundered. "I… um… dudes, I… erm." He paused for a moment, struggling for a rejoinder, and then frantically pointed off into the distance. "Look!" he screamed. "A non-specific excuse!"

And before they could ask any further questions, Soos had flung himself back into the driver's seat, put the truck in gear and accelerated away as fast as his wheels could carry him – accidentally whacking Toby in the head with the side mirror again as he sped away.

"What was that about?" Mabel asked, genuinely bewildered.

For her part, Mabel2 only offered a blissfully happy grin. "I have absolutely no idea whatsoever. One thing I do know: he learned a lot from our visit to Grunkle Stan's mind. Oh, and one other thing I know for sure: wherever he's going, I'm betting he'll be a whole lot happier there once he's had time to relax. Toby, are you okay?"

"Oooooowwwwwww."

"Poor baby. You need someone to take a look at your noggin?"

"No, I'm almost used to head injuries by now," said Toby. "I'm not sure why, though. Actually, what really hurts are my hands."

Mabel winced sympathetically as Toby turned over his badly-skinned hands for inspection. "Oh yeah, that's a really nasty case of road-rash there. You might want to have that looked at."

"Actually, I think I should check that out right now, Tobes," said Mabel2. "I think you've still got some gravel stuck in your knuckles."

Immediately the clone began gingerly picking over Toby's bloodied hands, gently checking each scratch, scrape and cut with a surprisingly gentle grip. Halfway through the inspection of the left hand, Toby let out a mutter of, "You know, I've been meaning to ask, Mabel; is your sister here from out of town or is this something to do with Weirdmagged_**OW!"**_

"Oh, I'm sorry! Are you okay?"

"I'm… I'm fine. Just a… large and rather _sharp_ fingernail in my open wound. Ow. I think I'll take your advice, Mabel: I'm off to the doctor… if I don't end up being redirected to the veterinarian again. Have a nice day, you two. Owwwwww…"

He hobbled away, still clutching his left hand.

"Now," said Mabel2, briskly. "I think I'm in the mood for lunch. How about you, Mabes?"

* * *

As expected, the lunch was nothing short of incredible, in no small part because Mabel2 had been there to liven things up: every single patron of the Greasy Diner had been enthralled with the clone's gleeful introductions and theatrics, and not even Lazy Susan had escaped a surprise hello courtesy of Mabel2. All the while, Mabel sat back and watched the show unfold, while Waddles dozed peacefully at her feet.

Now, the two were helping themselves to perfectly identical servings of cherry pie along with perfectly identical strawberry milkshakes, each one enhanced with a few sachets of Smile Dip and edible sparkles that Mabel2 had "found" while fleeing from the theatre staff. After a few mouthfuls of Dip-improved pie, Mabel was well on her way to reaching geostationary orbit, and by the end of the meal, it was a marvel she wasn't on her way to Neptune.

Eventually, though, Mabel asked for a glass of water to help bring herself down from the sugar high just a tiny bit, and as she sat back and drank up, she soon remembered something rather important: before lunch, there'd been a rather serious question that she'd been asking Mabel2, one that had been almost completely forgotten in the wake of Toby Determined's road rash.

"You were going to tell me why you were created," she said, still jittering slightly from the Smile Dip.

"Oh, that's _right! _I was, wasn't I? Well, like I was saying, everything happens for a reason: birds fly, fish swim, cars drive past us in weird bursts of speed, Toby Determined steps off the curb without looking, and _you_ make life better for everyone!"

Mabel blinked. "I do?"

"Of course! You make the world a happier place, whether people realize it or not. But there's a problem: who's supposed to make _you _happier when it all gets too much for you? Who's supposed to brighten up _your_ life when it looks like the sun won't ever shine again? You've got such a burden on your shoulders, and nobody ever thanks you for all the good you do – and that's why _I'm _here! I'm here to make you just as happy as you make the rest of the world!"

There was a pause, as Mabel slowly considered this. A few weeks ago, she'd have been more than happy to agree with this assessment: she'd been the life of the party even when there was no party to be found, always doing her best to make sure that people were smiling, laughing, having fun and paired up. Even the run-in with the unicorn in the enchanted glade hadn't dampened her spirit for much longer than a day, not with Wendy, Grenda and Candy there to support her. The day before Weirdmageddon had badly dented her confidence, however, and not just because everyone had seemed determined to leave her despite all her efforts to bring them together.

She'd never admitted the part she'd played in Weirdmageddon. For the longest time, she'd refused to admit it even to herself, choosing instead to believe that the bargain with Bill had been a nothing more than a nightmare. But then she'd escaped from Mabeland, and the awful reality had come crashing in on her; she'd managed to hide her guilt from Dipper, enough for him to think the moments she couldn't face the others were just due to nerves. Even with Bill dead and Weirdmageddon over before it could spread to the rest of the world, it was almost impossible to believe she could ever be as kind or good as she'd once imagined herself to be. How could she even think of it with _that _on her consciousness?

"Of course," Mabel2 continued, "You really need all the help you can get. You haven't been yourself since the start of Weirdmageddon, not really. That meeting with Bill really took the best out of you, didn't it?"

Mabel froze.

In hindsight, it should have been obvious well in advance: the clone had all of her memories, after all, and knew everything she knew. She'd known all about the role Mabel had played in Weirdmageddon right from the beginning.

Suddenly, Mabel couldn't even meet her own double's eyes.

"Hey," 2 soothed. "Don't be like that, Mabel. It wasn't your fault."

"But it _was."_ Mabel wanted to scream those words, but her throat had tightened so much that all that emerged was a strangled croak.

Tears were already gathering in her eyes. All she could think of were all the days Dipper and Wendy and Soos had wandered the ruins alone; how long Grunkle Stan had kept the survivors together at the shack; all the time Grunkle Ford had been tortured – all of it because of her. She tried not to let 2 see the tears, tried to hide her face behind her hair, but without much success.

Suddenly, Mabel2 was sliding into the booth next to her, putting a companionable arm around her shoulder. "Hey," she soothed. "There's no need to cry: you made a mistake, sure, but you helped fix it. And because you decided to set things right, everyone's better than they've been in years: Dipper's closer to you than ever, Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford are best friends again, and you know what? Ford doesn't blame Dipper at all for turning down the apprenticeship. So why cry about it?"

"Because I'm stupid. Because I'm selfish. Because I'm everything the unicorn said I was and worse."

"You're not a bad person, Mabel. You just need help from time to time."

"Oh right, real useful advice there, 2. The last time I needed help, I nearly ended the world; Bill tricked me into handing over the rift, then locked me up in Mabeland. And the _things_ I said while I was there… I mean, how can I make the world a better place for anyone when I'm _that_ selfish?"

"Selfishness isn't what made that happen, though: you were lonely and scared and you didn't know who to turn to. You made a mistake, because nobody was there to show you the right way. But you don't have to worry about that, anymore. I'm not just here to cheer you up: I'm here to show you the way."

Mabel gave 2 a dubious look. "This isn't going to be some weird invitation back to Mabeland or something like that, is it?"

At this, she just laughed. "No, silly! That's the last thing I'd ever want to do!"

"What, then?"

"Dipper was right, Mabel: when the world hurts you, shames you, leaves you alone with only your own company, you can't just hide away in your own fantasies and pretend it's not your problem. Mabeland wasn't the answer, and it never will be. If you want a better world, you won't find it inside your own head, and you definitely won't just discover it in the real world; even if you built a portal of your own and hunted the multiverse for the rest of your life, you'd never find it. No, if you want a better world, you've got to build it for yourself. And that's what I'm here to help you do," she concluded with an impish grin.

And in spite of all her doubts and fears and simmering self-loathing, Mabel found herself listening intently, the ghost of a smile growing ever-stronger on her face.

"What do you mean?" she asked, scarcely daring to hope.

"You and me, Mabel: we're going to make the world and everyone in it so much happier. We're going to make this world _better…"_

* * *

This chapter's soundtrack choice is **It Could Be A Wonderful World** by Leon Bibb.

Any guesses on what might happen next? Feel free to share! Or else, just try the code:

**Dv'iv tozw gl hvv blf'iv szermt ufm  
Yfg hgroo lfi dlip rh mlg jfrgv wlmv  
Blfi szkkrmvhh szh bvg gl hkivzw  
Dv'ev bvg gl vzim lfi wzrob yivzw**


	4. Red Flags

A/N: Aaaand we're back! Hope you're enjoying the story so far; feel free to furnish me with your opinions, critiques, examinations and analyses!

Without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls is not mine.

* * *

"Let's try this again. Surveying sequence #40 commencing… now. Hmmm. Okay, we're looking for indications of nanoscopic biological moulding. With any luck, there'll be registered trademark signs imprinted on the structure of the cells, just to let potential clients recognize they're dealing with registered intellectual property: hopefully, that'll be enough to isolate corporate-owned nanotech replication procedures as a possible source of the clone."

"Corporate-owned nanotech replication procedures," Stan grumbled wearily. "That's one sentence I never thought I'd have to hear even down in this basement."

"You have to admit it sounds almost plausible," said Ford. "Think about it: a nanoswarm would have been able to take a sample of Mabel's DNA without her even knowing it, then form a clone right there in the hallway outside her bedroom, and nobody would have been the wiser."

"If you say so."

"Of course, I'm still not sure how they would have pulled off duplicating Mabel's personality. Most nanites can't manage that without – dammit!"

"What's wrong?"

Ford sighed furiously, keying in several dozen additional instructions before he looked up from the monitor in front of him. "The scan turned up nothing," he said at last. "However Mabel2 was created, it wasn't with nanotech."

"Ah."

They'd been down in the basement for the better part of four hours now, pottering around the vast space where the portal had once sat and studying the saliva sample they'd captured from Mabel2's glass. For a while, Stan had actually got a weird thrill of nostalgia out of the whole deal: it seemed to bring together the best parts of working on the portal and working together with Ford in their childhood adventures.

Unfortunately, neither of them had enjoyed much in the way of luck so far: every single test that Ford had run so far had turned up nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that could reveal where the clone had come from or what had created her. Indeed, it was looking more and more like she'd just popped into existence in the middle of the night, and as for learning what she might be planning, they might as well have been trying to move a sleeping cat for all the success they were having.

"I swear," Ford grumbled, "There's something eerily familiar about Mabel2."

"Well, she _is_ a clone," said Stan, grinning cheekily.

"Oh har, har, har. No, I mean that everything about the clone I've seen so far – the sudden appearance, the lack of explanation, the suspicious behaviour, even all these weird quirks in the DNA – it almost looks as though I've seen it before. I don't know where, I don't know when, but I can't shake the feeling that I once encountered something like this on my travels through the multiverse."

"Hey, I thought _I _was supposed to be the guy who relied on his gut."

"I'm not playing any hunches, believe me: I'm just saying that all the signs seem to be adding up to something very, very familiar, but I just can't put my finger on it."

"You say this thing reminds you of something you saw in the multiverse, though; are we really sure this clone isn't from another universe?"

"Well, the fact that the entire world hasn't fizzled out of existence would seem to be pretty compelling evidence to the contrary."

"Nah, nah, nah, that's not what I meant: what if someone in another dimension or whatever made a clone of the Mabel in _their_ universe and sent it out here?"

Ford stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Oooh, now _that_ is quite intriguing. That could be exactly the loophole we're looking for; I mean, a duplicate probably wouldn't cause the same disruption to the space-time continuum… and maybe the cloning would have been based on some exotic process that wouldn't be easily recognized by my analyser here. Perhaps that would explain these weird distortions to the DNA pattern. Hmmm."

"So you think it's worth checking?"

"Yes, definitely. Incidentally, are you sure you didn't read any of my Weird Adventures magazines when we were kids? This idea sounds like something right of Issue #56."

Stan chuckled ruefully. "Hey, sometimes even _I_ run out of comics, Sixer."

"I thought you said my magazines were boring!"

"Doesn't mean I didn't read 'em."

Ford laughed – actually laughed uproariously. "If you're recalling something like that, you're doing better than I thought; maybe eighty percent of your memory's been restored to normal at the very least."

"One thing at a time, Sixer: we can celebrate later – once we've gotten to the bottom of this mystery, yeah?"

"Good point, good point," said Ford, sobering rapidly. "Anyway, as much as I'd like to declare this little conundrum solved, there's a couple of problems with the idea of Mabel2 being a clone from another dimension."

"Such as?"

"Well, for one thing, most forms of dimensional transportation leave subtle markers around the traveller, many of them visible only on the cellular level but very easy for my machines to detect. It's a bit like artron energy and time travel: step through a crack in the world, use a portal-potty, and you're coated in a dozen forms of subtle background radiation. If Mabel2 was from another dimension, my scan would have detected it at the breakfast table."

"I'll have to take your word for that. What else?"

"The second issue is this: after you brought me back through the portal, I took the liberty of installing a few sensors around the shack that would alert me to any interdimensional incursions occurring in or around Gravity Falls. That's how I was able to detect the instability that eventually became the rift. It's a bit like a seismograph, really."

"So if anything arrives from another dimension, alarm bells start ringing?"

"Well, that _was_ how it went. However, once I'd fixed the place up after Weirdmageddon, I decided to change the settings."

"Wha-_why?"_

"Well, you were still recovering and I wanted to look after you. I thought that with Bill dead, the odds of an interdimensional incursion dropped significantly, so it wouldn't have been a full-blown emergency. I've still got an alert system set up, just not an urgent one: this time, anything tripping the sensors gets recorded, and every morning, I check for any alerts by means of this little device here." He tapped his watch by way of explanation. "No alarms this morning, nor any morning since Weirdmageddon ended. So, logically, there's no way we could have had visitors from another dimension without me knowing about it."

Stan thought for a moment; the last few days had definitely renewed his trust in Ford, but every instinct he'd acquired over a lifetime of petty crime and conmanship told him that something was definitely wrong. There were loopholes in everything: even the most infallible system had weaknesses that could be exploited if you looked long enough and hard enough. As the safecrackers and burglars around prison had told him many times, there was always a lonely doorman with a weakness for the bottle, or a secretary who could be charmed with a smile. And of course, he himself knew all too well that there were ways of getting money out of even the most incredulous people if you knew the right sales pitch or the right venue that could get them to drop their guards. After all, tourists didn't act as stupidly as they did on vacation when they were back at home, otherwise they wouldn't have the money to _go_ on vacation in the first place. The Shack was part of that magic, really: it encouraged people to drop their guard and waste their cash on the frivolous crap that Stan peddled, just as it helped Ford and McGucket to perform their impossible research, just as it had helped to shield them all during Weirdmageddon…

…and perhaps Mabel2 knew that as well.

"These sensors all link back to a hub just like any alarm system, right?"

"That's right, and the hub sends me the automated alerts every morning."

"Then where is it?"

Ford reached for one of the ponderous cabinets sitting just above the benchtop – and immediately froze in mid-reach. "That should not have been left unlocked," he whispered.

Swinging the cabinet door open, Stan was immediately greeted by a slick, sophisticated-looking device about the same size and shape as the average VCR, clustered with dozens of tiny antennae and satellite dishes. However, you didn't have to be a genius to recognize the fact that it had clearly been sabotaged: every single one of the miniscule antennae had been either disconnected or simply ripped out of the hub entirely, cables, wiring and all.

"Oooooooooh _dear,"_ said Ford, quietly.

"When do you think that happened?" Stan asked.

"Probably well before dawn; nobody could have gotten down here while we were all awake."

"The lock's been jimmied, too. Does anyone else know this was here, Ford?"

"Dipper and Mabel helped out with the repairs, so they would have probably seen me patching this thing up three days ago-"

"-and Mabel2 has all of Mabel's memories."

"Exactly. She knew _exactly_ where to hit us and how, all so we wouldn't have enough suspicious to stop her racing out the door with the _real_ Mabel. And now she's loose in Gravity Falls, hell-bent on doing god only knows what with her newfound freedom-"

"And we still don't even know what she wants."

And in the horrified silence that followed, the phone rang, startling them near-witless. Stan was the first to recover, hastily picking up the phone and almost squeaking out an answer of "Hello?"

"_Mr Pines, it's me! I've been spotted and Mabel2's been asking questions!"_

"Never mind that, now, Soos."

"_But she knows I'm there!"_

"That doesn't matter anymore! We need both Mabels back at the Mystery Shack _yesterday._ Whatever they're doing right now, they have to be picked up and brought back here: tell them there's an emergency – that Dipper needs their help or something like that. Whatever you do, _do not leave Mabel2_ _in town_. Got it?"

"_Yes, sir."_

"Good man. Now, get to it: get those girls back here as soon as possible, and don't brake for anything."

He hung up.

"Do we have a place to put Mabel2?" Stan asked. "I'm not saying she's dangerous or anything like that, but if she's started breaking vital equipment, I don't think she should be allowed to roam free anymore."

"Agreed. I've got a handful of collapsible quarantine cells from Dimension #238J7E9/XX in my inventory: it's not much, but they'll be sturdy enough to contain the clone."

"Good, good…"

Another awkward pause followed, this one broken by the muffled clatter of Ford fossicking around in the ruins of the sensor hub.

"What the hell are you doing _now?"_

"I'm trying to get this thing back on line, what does it _look_ like I'm doing?"

"Ford, we already know we've got a clone from another dimension snooping around; fixing the hub now is going to be about as useful as a pool noodle in a flash flood. I mean, you've gotta have something better to do!"

"The hub wouldn't have just sounded the alarm, Stanley: it records the precise nature of the disturbances and even what emerged, if anything. Unless the clone feels like explaining herself, getting this thing back up and running might be our only way of finding out how Mabel2 was created, how she was brought here, and with a little luck, what she's up to."

"You're sure?"

"I should be, I designed _and_ built the damn thing."

"Then what the hell else are we going to do in the meantime? If this is an emergency – and it's starting to sound like one – I'm not just gonna sit around doing nothing until Soos gets back."

Ford sighed deeply. "Best thing to do at this point is to head upstairs and see if Dipper's awake yet; we'll need all hands on deck for this."

"You think we should call Wendy as well?"

"Good idea. Once you've made the call and gotten Dipper out of bed, check every defensive fixture in this building for any additional signs of sabotage: broken windows, jimmied locks, rope ladders, anything. If the clone's been here long enough to futz with my security systems, there's no telling what havoc she wreaked before waking up Mabel."

"You think she could've tried to get rid of the unicorn hair?"

"Anything's possible at this point. Who knows what Mabel2 could have planned? Who knows what she could really want?"

* * *

"Four Pitt colas, please!"

It was almost 1 in the afternoon, and by now, Mabel, Mabel2 and Waddles had made it halfway across the town in their search for fun, and now – fresh from browsing the mall for birthday presents for Dipper – they'd decided to recharge with some extra caffeine and sugar.

Hence why they'd decided to blow the last of their money on some cans of soft drink at one of the nearest shops.

Eventually, they found a seating area that hadn't been crammed full of exhausted shoppers and sat down to drink – and, of course, to watch the people drifting by. Right now, just about everyone in Gravity Falls seemed to be looking for ways to recover from the events of Weirdmageddon, and unsurprisingly, a good many of them seemed to have picked shopping as their method of choice. Everyone here had a desperate, slightly-manic air about them, one that seemed most intense around the new arrivals and the most relaxed around those leaving the mall with full bags. Quite a few people looked surprised when the potted plants didn't try to grab them as they walked past, and some even jumped in surprise when there wasn't a Henchmaniac waiting for them behind the automatic doors.

Maybe it was the sight of all these bemused-looking people in action, maybe it was just curiosity, but sooner or later, the conversation gradually turned back towards what they'd been discussing back at the diner.

"So how are we going to make everyone happier?" Mabel asked. "How are we supposed to make a better world like you said we would?"

"You'll see," 2 replied with a wink.

"I hope it's soon, because something tells me mom and dad are going to be a little confused when they find out they've got _three _kids instead of two."

"Ah, I wouldn't worry about that. They'll be happy no matter what happens."

"How's that?"

"Well, this whole "making the world a better place" business actually starts at home when you get right down to it, and…" Mabel2 paused, eyes suddenly alighting on a point in the distance. "Well," she said, "It looks like Soos has caught up with us again."

Looking up, Mabel saw that Soos was indeed hurrying through the crowd towards them, chubby legs pumping desperately as he jogged across the mall. And as he drew closer, it became pretty clear that he was on the brink of panicking: not only was he puffing and panting and soaked from head to toe in sweat, but the blood had almost completely drained from his face and left him an almost ghostly shade of grey, and as he staggered to a halt in front of them, Mabel saw that he was trembling like a leaf in a hurricane wind.

"Dudes," he wheezed, "You've gotta get back to the Mystery Shack right now! Mr Pines says it's an emergency!"

"Why? What happened?" Mabel asked, unable to hide the nervous tremor in her voice.

"I dunno, dude; all I know is that Stan and Ford need all the help they can get over there. We've gotta get going soon."

"But what-"

"That's alright," said Mabel2, without missing a beat. "If it's an emergency, we're on hand to give whatever help Grunkle Stan needs; we're ready to go whenever you are, Soos."

Soos blinked, briefly surprised. "You are?" he blurted. "I-I mean, great, dudes! Let's get going then!"

And with that, he began shambling back through the crowd with Mabel2 by his side – hand-in-hand so that they didn't lose each other in the bustling crowd – leaving Mabel and Waddles to hurry awkwardly after them. However, just as they reached the entrance, Soos stumbled and almost fell, only just managing to brace himself against the nearest wall before it was too late.

"Soos!" Mabel yelped. "Are you okay?"

"I'll be alright, dude," he panted. "Just a little light-headed. Need to catch my breath for a second."

Mabel reached up and checked Soos' temperature, absently wiping away a small lake's worth of sweat from his brow. A split second later, she yanked her hand away with a gasp of shock: it was like touching the side of an active furnace.

"You're burning up!" she exclaimed.

"Am I? I feel just fine…"

Without warning, he lurched away from the wall and made a shambling lunge for the doors, barely managing to reach the other side before having to stop and rest. Mabel and 2 could only hurry after him, arriving just in time to keep him from toppling over.

"Are those cans of Pitt Cola you got there, Mabel? I could really use a cool drink right now."

Mabel automatically handed over one of the two cans that they hadn't started drinking yet; popping it open, Soos drained it almost halfway before coming up for air. "Okay," he panted. "I think I'll be okay for now. My truck's parked just over here; we'll head home and have Ford take a look at me."

"Soos, we really should call Grunkle Stan; he'll be able to pick us up and get you to a doctor.

"Nah, dude, I swear I'll be okay. Just keep those cold sodas coming until we get back to the Mystery Shack. Now, let's get going…"

* * *

Fortunately, Mabel2 hadn't done a very thorough job of sabotaging the sensor hub; true, she'd disconnected every single connection binding the array together and damaged the power cables beyond repair, but she hadn't completely destroyed the machine. Maybe the clone had believed that nobody would notice the damage until it was too late for anyone to do anything about it, or maybe she'd just been trying not to make too much noise – lord only knew that the banging and crashing would have been enough to wake someone up.

All the same, it took Ford almost half an hour to replace the cables, reconnect the sensory antennae and get the hub back online. More frustratingly, thanks to the long period it had spent off, it took even longer for the machine to finish processing and compiling all the messages it had meant to send him around breakfast time.

While he waited, Ford idly pottered around the lab, looking for other signs of damage. To his consternation, he found that someone had been at his workbench: however long Mabel2 had been down here, she'd stayed long enough to ruin some of his less ambitious side-projects. Most of them could be replaced given a little time and effort, but it was definitely disheartening to see his work so callously destroyed, especially given that some of these projects had been built as presents.

Among other things, Cecil the Oven-Cleaner had been snapped in half and trampled flat, whilst the fleet of miniature documentation cameras had been dismantled and superglued back together out of order. His wall-scaling vacuuming automaton had been effectively disembowelled of every single wire, cable and component in its housing, and a screwdriver had been driven clean through its main logic processor. Even the Sentient Shiatsu Mecha – built specifically to help out with Stan's backaches – hadn't been spared destruction: not only had every wire in its body been cut, but someone had poured acid all over its CPU.

Why would Mabel2 have done this, assuming she really was to blame? Why would she have committed these acts of petty sabotage? The sensor hub he could understand: leaving that alone would have led to her being discovered, so sabotage it made perfect sense… but what threat did harmless utility robots pose? Most of them possessed only rudimentary sentience, and even the Shiatsu Mecha was comparatively limited by A.I. standards. What harm could they have done to Mabel2?

And how did this gel with 2's duplication of Mabel's personality? Assuming it hadn't all been an act, assuming Mabel's character traits really had been accurately duplicated, how could the clone exhibit the original's sense of exuberance and friendliness… and yet also be capable of such unprovoked maliciousness?

And why did the clone seem so damnably _familiar?_

The repaired sensor hub trilled urgently: by now it had finished processing, and now had notifications ready to go; whatever was going on, the barrier between dimensions had been breached very recently – not once, but _twice…_ and on both occasions, something new had arrived in this dimension.

The first alert had been at the stroke of midnight the previous evening, in the forests bordering Gravity Falls: it had lasted only for a few seconds, and had only been of significant to transport a single human-sized entity. However, this new arrival had not been the clone: according to the readings, the intruder had to be at least six feet tall – ergo, _not_ Mabel2.

The second alert had been at 00:05 AM, this time right outside the Mystery Shack. This one made even less sense, though: the portal activity had been even smaller than the first, and judging by the readings, this new arrival couldn't have been bigger than a hummingbird.

So, how could the clone have been created? Had the first intruder been carrying around some kind of remote cloning kit, or had the second just laid an egg and hatched Mabel2 from it? Were they shapeshifters? Had one of them _become_ Mabel2? No, if that were the case, the multiversal background radiation would have given them away. None of this made sense… but somehow, it seemed even more familiar than ever before.

But how could that-

_**BRRRRRRRRRRRRRNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGG!**_

Ford's train of thought came to a sudden stop as no less than twelve alarm bells began ringing all over the lab, emergency klaxons filling the air with the nerve-jangling sound of a full-blown red alert. Ford had installed these things not long after realizing just dodgy his safety precautions had been in the past, never expecting that these alarms would ever be used; now, all of them were active at once.

**ALERT**, the P.A. system trilled. **ALERT. CONTAMINANTS DETECTED WITHIN LAB BOUNDARIES. INVESTIGATE IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT, INVESTIGATE IMMEDIATELY.**

_Well, that can't be good._

A moment later, Stan came rushing into the basement, his face white with shock and his brow glistening with sweat. "What the hell's going on?" he panted.

"Well, something just tripped the contaminant detectors inside the lab, and we may all be in serious trouble."

"This isn't something to do with the sensor hub is it?"

"No, actually: this just happened a few seconds ago – God only knows how, though. I swear, all my containment units are in order, and…" Ford trailed off, finally noticing the rather conspicuous absence in the laboratory.

"Where's Dipper?" he asked.

"That's what I just ran down here to tell you," said Stan urgently. "By the time I got upstairs, he was out of bed. I looked all over the Shack, and there's no sign of him anywhere; Dipper's _gone."_

* * *

A/N: This chapter's soundtrack choice is **A Still Surface **by Marc Canham.

Any ideas why Soos might be sick? What contaminant is loose in the lab? And where is Dipper? Feel free to review and share your ideas!

**Ilfmw zmw ilfmw, gsv srev-wilmvh hdzin  
Ilfmw gsv jfvvm, hl drhv zmw dzin  
Hllm gsvb ivzk dszg blf hgroo hvd  
Rg'h grnv uli fh gl yvtrm gsv hsld**


	5. A Most Unwelcome Diagnosis

A/N: And we're back! A big thank-you to everyone who read, reviewed, favourited and followed. The story's slowly beginning to heat up, and I'm hoping to hear a few more ideas from you all about what might be going on from behind the scenes: **feel free to share your theories on the story so far - no matter how wild, weird or crazy you think they might be - all interpretations are welcome!**

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls is not mine.

* * *

The Grey Professional allowed himself a faint smirk as the drama played out before him. By now, his cameras were scattered all over Gravity Falls and not one single minute of the marvel had gone unrecorded, his best work captured for posterity.

Mabel Pines and her doppelganger had accomplished so much in the last few hours, and even though Soos Ramirez was returning them to the Mystery Shack, their work was still progressing magnificently. Already he could see the change in the town, the subtle differences in the streets, every shift and eddy within the crowds gleefully analysed by his new surveillance network… and by now, the excitement was almost too much to bear.

Professional standards forbade him from gloating until the very last minute of the job, but today it was _so damnably hard_ to uphold them: he wanted so dearly to walk among the people and let them know just how screwed they were. He wanted to switch off his cameras and watch everything up close, just so he could giggle at the results when the fruits of the Queen's labours finally bore fruit. Most of all, he wanted to wave to Mabel as she drifted past his hiding place. She'd see it easily enough, what with how slowly Soos was driving. Just a single, solitary wave from between the gloomy trees bordering the road, just enough to let her know that something spooky might be afoot, just to let a portent of doom freeze her little heart.

But in the end, he didn't. There were rules in his line of work: once a job was in progress, he was to remain out of sight until it was too late for anyone to do anything about it. Unobtrusive as a shadow on a gloomy day, professionals like him were to observe, record and interfere in only the subtlest of ways – right up until the penultimate moment of victory, when they could finally emerge from the shadows and gloat alongside their clients. And so, as long as his work remained incomplete, he would remain unseen.

By now, Soos' car was halfway down the lonely forest road and getting steadily closer to its destination. As slow as the bloated idiot was driving, he'd still be able to reach the Mystery Shack long before things in town started really heating up. It was a shame, really: the Grey Professional hadn't had a chance to plant any of his cameras inside the Shack just yet, so whatever dramas unfolded inside would go unrecorded. True, he still had a few close enough to peer through the windows, but it wasn't the same as having a fly-on-the-wall perspective of events.

But in the end, he didn't mind that. After all, there was more than enough going on in town to keep him amused. So, he simply sat back against a tree, put his feet up, and reviewed his cameras once again, gleefully taking note of every new symptom appearing across Gravity Falls.

The reward from this job was going to be tasty indeed… but still not _quite_ as tasty as the madness that was yet to come. Oh yes, the people of Gravity Falls were going to be happier than they could possibly imagine in the next few hours...

* * *

Not for the first time in his long and colourful life, Stan found himself wondering why hazmat suits were so tricky to get in and out of. Once again, he'd been squeezed into a plastic suit and a pair of steel-toed galoshes and had a gas mask rammed over his sweating face… except this time, he had literally no idea why. At least when he'd last subjected himself to all this discomfort, he'd had a very definite purpose in mind; right now, all he knew was that _something _was wrong in the labs, and that was reason enough to turn himself into a human tube of toothpaste.

On the upside, Ford didn't look so grand either: he was dressed in a suit of his own, complete with custom-made gloves, and in that moment, he was busily typing away at an archaic-looking computer monitor built into one of the laboratory benches… and even though he was sitting perfectly still, Stan could tell he was just about climbing the walls. What with the suit, it was hard to spot most of Ford's usual tells, but he could see about half of his face through the gas mask, and the sight alone told him that brother was almost sick with worry: not only were his eyes frozen in a wide, unblinking stare at the monitor ahead of him, but his brow was so wrinkled and knotted with anxiety that his forehead was starting to look like a road map of the Pyrenees.

The silence only made things worse: by now, they'd finally switched off the alarms, but with Ford's attention being now completely focussed on the computer in front of him, that left the lab plunged into an eerie, oppressive silence – broken only by the muffled clatter of Ford's gloved hands on the keyboard and the rasping _hoooo-huurrr _of their respirators at work.

Eventually, Stan couldn't take another minute of it. "Ford, what's going on now?" he asked.

"I'm trying to get a handle on whatever it is that's contaminated the labs. It might take a few minutes for us to find a match, though: we've got about seven hundred and fifty thousand entries to check."

"More cross-referencing, then?"

"Pretty much. This little database here might be a little primitive by my usual standards, but it's connected up to the lab sensors – and more importantly, it's got all the information we need on the subject. On the night you brought me back through the portal, I logged enough examples of pollutants, contagions and other biochemical hazards from around the multiverse to give seasoned virologists nightmares. Hopefully, that'll be enough to give us some idea of what we're dealing with."

"Wait… you logged all that stuff in right after you got back?"

Ford sighed wearily. "Truth be told, I was just trying to improve on the old lab safety protocols. You've probably noticed this already, but when it comes to occupational health and safety standards, I'm always a day late and a dollar short."

"Can I help?"

"You've called Wendy for help, right?" Upon seeing Stan's nod, Ford added, "Just keep an eye on the stairs: when Wendy arrives, she has to get into a hazmat suit before she enters the lab. The last thing we need is to get anyone else exposed to whatever's gone wrong down here."

There was a pause, as Stan kept one eye carefully trained on the now-locked door in the control room overhead. However, it wasn't long before the silence once again got the better of him, and he asked, "Where do you think Dipper's got to?"

Ford hesitated, hands freezing over the keyboard. "You're sure he wasn't anywhere in the building?" he said at last.

"Positive. He's nowhere in town either: I called around to just about all of his usual hangouts, including Wendy's house, and they haven't seen any sign of him."

"Do you have any idea when he left?"

Behind his mask, Stan bit his lip. "I think he actually left before Mabel did," he confessed. "He'd actually made a pillow dummy to make it look as though he was still sleeping. Wherever he's got to, he's long gone by now."

Ford shook his head in frustration. "Again,_ why does this seem so familiar?_ I swear, this all sounds like something I've seen before. Aaargh, so many things seen across dimensions and not enough space in my brain for them all!"

"What, people randomly vanishing and leaving pillow dummies behind? That seems familiar to you? I oughta hope so: I used that trick all the time when we were kids!"

"No, no," said Ford, stifling a grin. "I was thinking something more along the lines of inexplicable vanishings. I swear, I saw something that operated by the exact same playbook: people would just disappear in the middle of the night. They weren't kidnapped, they weren't eaten, and as far as my studies could tell, they weren't even harmed in any conventional way. They just… got up and left."

"What happened to them?"

"Like I said, I don't remember. I recall waking up in a bar at some point, so maybe that's why."

Stan blinked. "_Seriously?"_

"Is it really so hard to believe?"

"Well, don't take this the wrong way or anything, but the last time I saw you drinking anything stronger than coffee, you ended up puking your guts out in the alleyway."

"Oh yeah," said Ford, ruefully. "How could I forget prom night? Anyway, I've gained a much higher tolerance since then. Well, I kind of _had to_ once Fiddleford introduced me to recreational moonshining." He took a deep breath. "Maybe it was the drinking, maybe it was just because I saw so many things out there and can't remember them all off the top of my head; however I forgot it, I know this much: whatever happened to those people who vanished… well, it wasn't good. I can tell you that much."

"Then why aren't we out searching for Dipper?"

"Because, we are officially under quarantine: the two of us can't do anything until we've determined that we aren't going to turn whatever's affected the labs into an epidemic. If we go out looking now – and we actually find him – we could end up spreading it to him next."

"I'd still like to know we're doing more than just standing around doing noth-"

**MATCH FOUND,** intoned the PA system. **PRESENTING EVALUATION.**

"And here we go!" said Ford, sounded almost delighted in spite of himself. "We have confirmation at last: according to the database, the lab is currently infested by two incubating samples of…"

Behind the mask, his face froze.

"…of…"

"Ford? You okay?"

"…of…"

"You're seriously gonna have to finish your sentence at some point; you're starting to scare me."

Ford took a deep breath. "Oh god," he whispered. "Oh dear sweet lord, _no…"_

"What's wrong?" Stan asked, suddenly concerned.

Whatever he'd seen on the monitor, it had left Ford almost frozen with fear; his hands were gripping the benchtop so tightly that he could actually _hear_ the uneasy creak as it grew ever closer to snapping. Stan hadn't seen that look of blind, voiceless terror on his face since Bill had threatened Dipper and Mabel, blurry as the memories of that incident still were. By now, Stan could tell things were bad whenever Ford lost his usual confident air; even worse when something was clearly starting to worry him… but if that look of helpless, trapped, deer-in-the-headlights panic was dawning in his eyes once more, something had gone _cataclysmically _wrong.

For good measure, the monitor itself made little sense - just endless lines of small print and interminable rows of indecipherable calculations. If it said anything meaningful, only Ford could understand it.

The seconds ticked by in agonized silence.

"Ford," Stan whispered. "What is it?"

"…It's… it's all tied together. Mabel's illness, her Clone, Dipper's disappearance, the smashed robots, the portal activity – it's all part of the same problem!" Ford's voice rose to a shout. "It was staring me in the face the whole time, _and I couldn't see it!_ And now…_"_

"What are you talking about? Is it safe for us to leave? Can we go out and find Dipper or not?"

"No. I don't think it'll be safe for us to leave for a good long while, not unless you're planning on wearing your hazmat suit outdoors."

"What?"

He took a deep breath. "_We're_ the contamination, Stanley. We're carrying it. That's why the sensors didn't detect this stuff until a couple of minutes ago: it was hiding inside us! _We've been infested._"

Stan's heart skipped a beat.

"...how?" he asked, quietly.

"The clone. All of this started with Mabel2. She's... well, it'll take too long to explain, but suffice to say she's carrying something absolutely virulent and spreading it wherever she goes!"

"A disease?"

_"Worse_ than a disease."

For a split second, a plethora of questions crossed Stan's mind: what had they been infested _with, _would it kill them, how long did they have, and what symptoms could they look forward to? But in the end, only one sufficed.

"…is there anything we can do about it?"

"For the moment, yes. I think I still have an injector gun and a few vials of suppressant left in the desk over by the door: take the gun and two of the vials and bring them back here, ASAFP."

As Stan hurried off for the desk, there was the distant rumble of a door opening in the control room overhead, and Wendy's voice called out: "Mr Pines? I made it! What did you need help wi-"

"HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, IF YOU PLEASE!" Ford yelled suddenly. "BEFORE YOU GET ANY DEEPER INTO THE LAB, WENDY, YOU'RE GOING TO NEED A HAZMAT SUIT. THEY ARE IN A LOCKER TO YOUR IMMEDIATE LEFT. DO YOU SEE THEM?

"Uh… yes."

"YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO DRESS YOURSELF ON YOUR OWN, I'M AFRAID. WE WON'T BE ABLE TO HELP YOU."

"Why are you shouting so much? I can hear you just fine from here!"

"SORRY. FORCE OF-ahem. Force of emergency. Now, before you continue, I must ask: have you met Mabel today?"

"No, why?"

"Well, suffice it to say that our problem concerns her directly – her and her clone."

"_Clone?! _Oh no, this is gonna end up like that time Soos tried to summarize everything that happened on the day the portal opened, isn't it?"

"We'll explain everything once you're down here, Wendy," Stan assured her.

"In the meantime," Ford continued, "Whatever you do, don't come down here until you're absolutely positively sure that your suit is secured. We're going to need all hands on deck for this, and the fewer infested individuals, the better."

"Infested?" Wendy echoed. "What the hell is going on down there, anyway?"

Behind the mask, Stan saw the edges of Ford's mouth twist into a mirthless grimace. "I'm glad you asked me that Wendy," he said brightly. "As it happens, Mabel has been cloned, Dipper has gone AWOL, Soos is in serious danger, Stan and I have been infested with an extremely dangerous entity from across time and space, there's only six vials of effective medication left, and none of them can actually cure the infestation – only _suppress _it. Also, allowing this infestation to continue through to its final stage will, in all likelihood, have us _wishing_ we were dead."

"In all likelihood?"

"If we're lucky."

There was a pause, as Wendy considered this.

"I'll be right down," she said at last, her voice as calm and casual as ever. "Don't go anywhere."

"Well," Ford remarked. "That's all the confirmation I needed. She really is Manly Dan's daughter."

"You're damn right."

* * *

"Hi, Gideon! Nice skateboard."

Gideon looked up from trying to balance his board for the thirtieth try in as many minutes, a razor-sharp insult at the ready – only to find himself face-to-face with Mabel.

"Mabel!" he squeaked, all but wrenching the safety helmet off his head. "It's… it's good to see you. Um, what brings you here?"

"Oh, you know, just enjoying the sunshine, taking in the atmosphere, trying on some new clothes… you like my hat, by the way?"

As it turned out, she was wearing a natty brown fedora, neatly coordinated with her emerald-green sweater. Oddly enough, Gideon couldn't help but feel as if he'd seen the hat before, but try as he might, he couldn't think of where.

"What else was I gonna say? Oh, right! I'm watching my best friend try his hand at being normal."

This threw Gideon for a bit: as much as he'd try to deny it for too long, he'd gradually accepted the fact that he'd have a very, very long way to go before Mabel even considered him a good friend again, much less her "best" friend. Calling him that didn't even sound right coming from her… and yet, Gideon couldn't help but feel his ego inflate just a tiny bit as the words earthed themselves in his brain.

"You'd think of me as a friend?" he asked, scarcely daring to hope. "Your _best_ friend?"

"And more," said Mabel with a wink.

And then, just as Gideon was opening his mouth to ask if Mabel meant what he thought she'd meant, she abruptly leaned forward and kissed him.

Right on the lips.

As she withdrew, Gideon could only stand there, flushing red-hot and tottering back and forth like he was still on the skateboard. This couldn't possibly be real, not after everything he'd done; this had to be a dream, or a colossal mistake, or something to do with mind control… and yet, somewhere in the back Gideon's head, his ego was hammering override buttons and insisted that this was perfectly logical, and that everything he'd done since that final chase across the gorge – his rebellion, his part in forming the Circle, his attempts to reform – had actually convinced Mabel that he really was worthy of her affections.

Then, there was a muffled crashing from the undergrowth bordering the park, and a moment later, Ghost-Eyes pushed his way through the shrubbery and into the clearing, looking for all the world like a lost explorer hacking his way through a prehistoric jungle. "It took me a while," he panted, "but-"

"Oh hey, Ghost-Eyes! Any luck with that cola?"

There was a pause, as the giant ex-con took in the sight of Mabel in her new hat.

The can of cola very slowly fell from his gigantic hand.

"Gideon, I'm gonna need you to step away from her," said Ghost-Eyes.

"'Scuse me?"

"Now_, _please! That's _not _Mabel."

"…who else could she be?"

"I don't know, but if what I saw was real, she's definitely not the girl you think she is. There's something very wrong, here: I just got back from the store, and there was another Mabel there shaking hands with the guy behind the counter… and on my way back, I saw _another _Mabel crossing the road!"

"Another Mabel?" Gideon echoed. "You're sure she wasn't Dipper in a wig?" He laughed, expecting Ghost-Eyes to join in. But the awaited burst of booming laughter never arrived, nor did the look of wary mistrust fade from his face.

"I'm not joking, Gideon," said the ex-convict, grimly. "Word on the street is, the real Mabel's on her way back to the Mystery Shack. There's something up with the one you've got here: I mean, this stuff with the clones is weird enough, but when you've spent as many years dodging shivs in the yard as I have, you learn to spot an incoming threat. That's not the girl you had a crush on. Point o' fact, I don't know _what_ she is."

Mabel smirked. "Well, guess we've gotta do something about that, don't we?" she chuckled. "Gideon, I'd like you to meet some friends of mine…"

"Uh, Mabel, why are you looking at me like AAAAAAAARGH!"

* * *

"Whew," Soos panted. "Almost there, dudes. Aaaaalmost there."

Mabel looked from Soos' sweat-drenched face to the surrounding landscape crawling past them. At the moment, it seemed as though they were travelling at about a mile an hour.

Fortunately, they'd managed to avoid getting honked at or rear-ended by any of the cars that would usually be headed to the Mystery Shack at this hour of the day – and that was only because this particular road didn't seem to have much in the way of traffic for a change. Maybe it was because the repairs to the Shack had finally come to an end, or maybe it was just because there was something more interesting in town today. Inside the pickup, however, there wasn't much luck to be found: Mabel and Mabel2 were cramped into the same passenger seat, Waddles was sitting on the floor, the pickup was starting to drift across the median strip, and Soos looked about five seconds away from puking his guts out.

All the more confusing was the fact that Soos still hadn't stopped for a break. Mabel had seen him get sick in this pickup before, courtesy of a rather nasty burger, and Soos had chosen that occasion to pull over and puke rather than keep driving. After, the big handyman was pretty resilient and more than a little dim, but even he had his limits. This… this just seemed _off,_ somehow.

Actually, that wasn't the weirdest thing going on at the moment. No, the most confusing thing of all was the look on Mabel2's face: she didn't seem concerned, nor did she seem troubled at having her big day on the town cut short. The look on her face was completely neutral – almost suspiciously so. It took a while for Mabel to work out why this seemed suspicious; in fact, it wasn't until she noticed the clone determinedly biting her lip that Mabel realized the truth: this was the _exact_ expression she usually worn when she was just about to spring a prank on someone – as Dipper had helpfully pointed out one busy April 1st.

The look on Mabel2's face was one of _anticipation_.

Back in the present, the pickup truck wobbled violently as it lurched back over the median strip.

"Soos, are you sure you're okay?" Mabel asked, unable to hide the fear in her voice.

"Oh dude, fine. Just need to get the A.C. fixed."

"Soos, the A.C.'s _on. _It's freezing in here!"

"Really? I can't even feel it. How far are we from the Shack now?"

"Uh... if we were driving at normal speed, about two minutes."

"Oh. Wow, we are movin' fast, dude…"

At this, Mabel gave up. At any other time, she would have been the first to admit that she wasn't the most serious human being in the state – or the country, or even on the entire planet, for that matter – but even she knew that this couldn't go on any longer. Even if Soos wasn't actually about to pass out or crash, it was only a matter of time before another car turned the corner at high speed and smashed into them. Now was the time to pull over, call in some help from Grunkle Stan and get Soos to a doctor ASAP.

In fact she was just opening her mouth to suggest doing exactly this, when Mabel2 abruptly cut her off: "You take as long as you need, Soos," she said, soothingly. "Whatever you need to do, we'll help."

She patted him reassuringly on the arm.

"Besides," she whispered, "We're almost home. And won't Grunkle Ford be happy to see us…"

* * *

**A/N: **This chapter's soundtrack is _**The Sound Of Hate, **_by Martin Phipps.

What is Mabel2 up to? What does she want? What is the infestation? Feel free to furnish me with your theories and any attempts to translate the code!

**Dzgxs gsv Yrhslk hxivzn zmw uzoo  
Dzgxs gsv Illp tild hrxp zmw xizdo  
Rg'h grnv uli xsvxpnzgv, uli sviv'h gsv gsrmt:  
Lfi Jfvvm'h zoivzwb mzyyvw blfi Prmt**


	6. Imago

A/N: And welcome to the latest chapter! My thanks to everyone who viewed, reviewed, favourited and followed! In the meantime, feel free to carry on the wonderful theorizing you've all done so far... and if you like, try translating the codes. I mean, you don't _have_ to, but if you want a little extra hint, give it a try.

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls is not mine. Also, there is a reference to another animated show in this chapter; see if you can spot it.

* * *

"Okay," said Wendy, slamming the door shut behind her. "I'm locked and loaded. Now, what are we dealing with?"

"You're sure your suit's been properly sealed?"

"Positive: I checked in the mirror, your brother checked from a distance, and your big list of instructions all gave me the go-ahead. Unless you've got a robot or something that can check hazmat suits, we're okay."

"Well, I don't _anymore…_ but that's beside the point. Okay then…" Ford clapped his hands briskly. "Now that we've cut off all possible means of cross-contamination, we can begin administering emergency aid. Stanley, could you roll up your sleeve for a quick second?"

"I only just got the damn suit _on_, Ford!"

"Just for a second, please."

Sighing, Stan peeled off his left glove and rolled up the sleeve of his hazmat suit to the shoulder. "Is now a bad time to admit that I really hate needles?" he asked, as Ford readied the injector gun.

"Technically, this isn't a syringe. But it's a lot quicker than that, if it makes you feel any better."

Then, before Stan could raise any further injections, Ford reached out, gently gripped him by the forearm, and fired the injector gun directly into the vein.

"Ow! That actually hurt _more!"_

"Believe me, it's a lot better than the alternative," said Ford, darkly.

"What _is_ this stuff anyway?"

"It's a biochemical suppressant, built specifically to prevent our current infestation from reaching its terminal phase. I got it many years ago from a friend of mine in another dimension, a fellow scientist briefly contracted to help stop another infestation before it spiralled out of control. He couldn't create a cure, but he was able to synthesize a means of delaying the symptoms for a few hours - indefinitely if we can synthesize more of it."

"And you're sure this stuff works?"

"Positive."

"Guaranteed? I mean, it wasn't cooked up by some dork working out of a campervan or something like that, right?"

"Absolutely. I mean, Krieger's pretty crazy, there's no denying that, and yes, he was never the same after the San Marco incident – clones, ironically enough – but as long as you keep him away from communal fridges, bum fights, paraplegics, dead bodies, pig hybridization projects, and all other opportunities to put his weird paraphilias into practice, he is in all respects a brilliant scientist." Ford paused for breath. "Also, I have it on good authority that he's not a _serial_ killer."

"Weird use of emphasis there, but okay…"

As Stan put his glove back on, Ford repeated the process on himself, pausing only to replace the spent vial of serum attached to the gun. "There," he said at last. "Now we're safe for the time being."

"Great," deadpanned Wendy. "Now hopefully we can talk about why we needed to spend all this time getting dressed up and injecting ourselves with hyposprays. What are we up against? And what's all this stuff about Mabel having a clone all of a sudden?"

Stan took a deep breath. "_That's_ the simple part," he said. "Long story short, Mabel woke up this morning, there was a clone waiting for her outside, the clone ran off with her before we could stop them, they've been running wild over town for the last couple of hours, and now Soos is bringing them back. Now, Ford, it's time you explained what the hell is going on before we all turn into pumpkins: what have we been infected with, how did it happen in the first place, and how does it all tie back to all the weird crap that's been happening today?"

By way of an answer, Ford sat down heavily in his chair and sighed. "At present, the two of us have been _infested_ with a very rare and very potent form of koinobiont endoparasitoid from another reality, a thaumaturgical chimera incorporating elements of wasp and ophiocordyceps unilateris."

There was a pause, as Stan tried to digest this. In the end, he could only exchange bewildered glances with Wendy.

"Koino-_what?"_ he said at last.

"Koinobiont endoparasitoid. It means… look, are either of you familiar with cordyceps?"

Once again, Stan could only offer a blank stare.

Wendy, however, looked thoughtful: "Isn't that the zombie ant fungus?" she asked.

"The zombie ant fungus?" Ford echoed. "I… guess that's one way of putting it. Uh, how did you hear of this?"

"Dude, I play videogames."

Ford blinked in astonishment. "I really, really need to acquaint myself with modern popular culture," he muttered absently.

"So you're in danger of having a fungus explode out of your head or something like that?"

"Uh, no. If that were the case, we wouldn't have nearly as much to worry about. As it happens, Stan and I have been infested by something that was specifically bred to incorporate traits of cordyceps and certain forms of parasitoid wasp, but with the eusocial instincts of hive-based insects. Unlike any of them, however, this thing is highly contagious: just _touching_ someone is enough to spread it further… hence why I made you put on a hazmat suit before we could start injecting ourselves with suppressant."

"So what you're saying is that we've got parasites," Stan surmised helpfully.

"No, no. We have _parasitoids."_

"What's the difference?"

"For one thing, parasites don't actually kill their hosts – not intentionally. Parasitoids _do_, and quite horrifically so, I might add."

"Oh."

"Technically, there _is_ a real parasite involved here, but that's at a much different stage of this thing's life cycle, so we'll leave it for now."

"Ah.

"For now, we've got to worry about the fact that the serums we've just injected ourselves with can only suppress the infestation, not cure it."

"Hmm."

"So I've also got to work on seeing if I can improvise some kind of cure as well before the situation gets any worse."

"How bad could it get?"

"Our ultimate worse-case scenario would involve a galaxy-wide pandemic with Earth as the epicentre. And that's assuming someone doesn't try to eliminate the source of the plague by blowing up the planet."

Stan swallowed hard. "Right," he said at last. "There's just one question I need to ask before I take a break for a stiff drink: when did we get infected with this stuff in the first place?"

"And how?" Wendy asked. "That's the other thing you haven't explained."

"First of all, it's _infested,_ not infected."

"Whatever."

"Secondly, the source of our current infestation is Mabel2."

Behind her mask, Wendy's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"As for the when… well, Stanley, you saw how the clone was touching everyone at breakfast: handshakes, fistbumps, hugs, high-fives, and all the other things that wouldn't have looked out of place from her. Mabel2 is a carrier, _and she knows it_. That's why she wanted to get out of the house so quickly: she wanted to spread this parasitoid to as many people as possible before we found out the truth and tried to bring her back."

"So what's our gameplan?" asked Wendy. "If this clone's on the way back here, we've got to have some kind of strategy to stop her from getting away again."

"True. Suffice it to say, there's a reason why we aren't taking these hazmat suits off yet. The moment she gets through the front door, we grab her and lock her up in one of the quarantine cells until we can create a cure. The same goes for anyone who's been infested." Ford took a deep breath. "Now, I know I've said this before, but I have to say it again: _make sure that your suits are well and truly sealed__**.**_ I cannot stress this enough right now. This parasitoid can be spread by the _**slightest touch.**_ I mean it: one hole in your suit, and you're living on borrowed time. Also, do not let the clone bite you: I don't know if her jaws are strong enough to get through hazmat suits, but I'm not taking any chances okay. Got it?"

Wendy issued a salute.

Stan, however, was reflecting on something else. "If this thing spreads that easily by touch, then Soos is infested, too?"

"Very probably. Hence why we've got to get him into quarantine as well."

A deep pit of dread opened in the bottom of Stan's stomach. "And the same goes for Mabel, right?"

"No."

"No?"

"The clone won't have spread this thing to Mabel. It's actually impossible, believe it or not."

"Why?"

Ford paused, and bit his lip. "Well, there's something very important you should know about the parasitoid's life cycle-"

But whatever Ford had to say next was lost in the sound of the doorbell ringing loudly.

"Well, that's our cue!" he said loudly. "Wendy, you'll find a net in the locker by the door; Stan, there's a mancatcher under the desk to your left; I've got a stun baton. Hopefully that'll be enough."

"Where did you _get_ all this stuff, man? Soos never said anything about you carrying luggage with you when you first got here."

"You'd be surprised at how much I can fit in these pockets. Now, come on: we've got to get to the front door before Mabel2 tries wandering off!"

* * *

They were barely a hundred yards from the Mystery Shack when it happened.

Just when it looked as though he could make it, Soos abruptly groaned and collapsed over the steering wheel, sending the pickup swerving violently to the right. Thankfully, due to Soos' critically slow driving speed, they ground to a halt long before they hit the nearest tree, but the swerve was so sudden that it brought the front right wheel into jarring contact with an inconveniently-placed boulder sitting just offroad, tipping the wheel into the air and nearly flipping the entire pickup over.

As soon as the now-stationary truck had crashed back down to the ground, Mabel unclipped her seatbelt and tried frantically to rouse Soos, but without much success: from the looks of things, he was still just conscious enough to groan nonsense-words and struggle for a grip on the steering wheel, but other than that, he was completely out of it.

"Voices," he continuously muttered. "Voices all around me, dude."

Meanwhile, Mabel2 slipped out of the trick and crept on Soos from the driver's side door. "Get his seatbelt undone," she called. "Maybe we can carry him indoors."

"You're _kidding! _We'll have better luck calling for help from Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford!"

"Hey, he's a lot lighter than he looks; besides, they're probably really busy in there. We can deal with this ourselves, right?"

And in spite of all her doubts, Mabel found herself silently agreeing with her double as she undid Soos' seatbelt and gently slid him out of the truck. To her amazement, Mabel2 not only caught him, but actually lowered him to the ground without so much as a grunt of effort.

"How did you do that?" she asked, as her clone hauled Soos into a kneeling position.

"Lots and lots of Mabel juice. Now, you grab his left arm, I'll grab his right: we'll carry him over to the Mystery Shack, and everything will be okay."

Bewildered, Mabel helped drag Soos across the grounds, while Waddles trotted solemnly after them. Every step of the way, she could only marvel at her double's strength: right now, it was pretty clear that the handyman was just as heavy as he'd always been, but Mabel2 was somehow managing to perform most of the heavy lifting. The question was, if the clone really was that strong, why did she need Mabel's help to carry Soos at all? Why hadn't she just sent her ahead to get help from the Shack?

As they passed the totem pole, however, Soos' groans suddenly increased in volume, rising to pained screaming. Thrashing helplessly in their arms, he began to twitch and shiver so violently that Mabel almost lost her grip on him. A split second later, his eyes shot open, and he looked up at Mabel with an expression that even she couldn't mistake for anything other than a terrified gape.

"Soos, what's wrong?!"

For his part, Soos couldn't answer in anything other than screams. In desperation, Mabel reached out to check their patient's temperature, and immediately regretted it: if Soos got any warmer, he'd probably combust. There was something else about him, though: when she'd touched him, it almost felt as if his skin was starting to shift and ooze under her fingers.

Even more confusing was that Mabel2 didn't even seem surprised by any of the groaning, screaming, twitching or horrified expressions so far. Once again, she was in neutral node, and as much as Mabel would have liked to ask why she was taking this all in stride, the rising tide of Soos' screams soon drove such questions to the back of her head – where they'd have to remain until Soos was in hospital.

At long last, the four of them reached the front door – Mabel frantically ringing the doorbell for attention as they hauled Soos inside. To her surprise, they found that the first floor was deserted, from the living room to the kitchen: even the gift shop was empty, and that should have at least had a few visitors given Stan's hero status around town. Eventually, even Mabel was forced to take a breath and set Soos down for a while.

"GRUNKLE STAN!" she hollered, letting go of the supine handyman. "GRUNKLE FORD! WE'RE GONNA NEED SOME HELP HERE!"

By that point, Soos' screams were starting to peter out, so Mabel could clearly hear that nobody in the house was responding.

"HELLO? DIPPER! WENDY! ANYONE! SOOS NEEDS HELP!"

Still nothing.

"Where is everyone?" Mabel demanded. "I mean, maybe Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford are down in the basement, but why isn't Dipper showing up? He was still here when we left, and all the party prep work should have kept him inside-"

From behind her, someone let out a muffled snort of laughter. Puzzled, she turned and saw that Mabel2 was now covering her mouth, visibly shaking with repressed giggles.

"What's so funny?" Mabel asked.

"Oh, just wait and see," chuckled the clone. "You'll find out for yourself in just a couple of seconds."

"…what are you talking about-"

But before Mabel could finish her sentence, the vending machine swung open, disgorging three hazmat-suited figures, each of them armed with a bewildering assortment of weaponry. Because all of them were wearing gas masks, it took a while for her to recognize any of them, but as they charged closer and a few vague facial features crept into view, she eventually realized that this could only be Grunkle Ford, Grunkle Stan and Wendy. Far more confusing was the fact that they immediately blocked all the exits – Wendy slamming the external door shut, Stan barring the way to the museum, and Ford covering the door to the living room – and then began advancing on the three of them.

"ALRIGHT!" Ford boomed. "Nobody move! No sudden moves, no surprises, and we'll all get out of this alive!"

"What… what's going on?"

"We'll explain everything in just a minute, Mabel: for now, I need you to step away from Mabel2 immediately so we can place her under arrest. Stan, get ready to grab Soos as soon as the clone's secured, he looks to be in the terminal stage."

"That's what I was just about to say! Soos is really sick, Grunkle Ford: we need to get him to a hospital-"

"Believe me, a hospital wouldn't do him any good right now. We can treat him here, but I need you to step away from the clone before-"

There was a muffled cough from the sprawled figure on the floor behind him, and as she turned to get a look at it, Mabel realized that Soos was slowly getting to his feet. For a moment, her heart gave a tiny leap, and she almost found herself believing that the problem had cleared itself up; but then she saw the glazed look in the handyman's eyes – the way he seemed to look straight through her without even noticing she was there – and realized that Soos was worse than ever before.

"Abuelita," he muttered. "Can I stay home from school today? I think I'm sick."

"Oh god," said Grunkle Ford, a note of dawning horror in his voice. "We're too late…"

And then, before Mabel could ask what he was talking about, what was wrong, and why Mabel2 was grinning all of a sudden, Soos began to _change._

All over his body, his flesh began to ripple and ooze, flowing in all directions like melting candlewax; silky brown hair erupted from his scalp, pouring out from under his cap and flowing down his back in an impressive mane; his hands and face began to change shape, loud crunching sounds filling the air as the bones began reknitting themselves beneath his flesh. Then without warning, Soos' impressive belly began to contract inwards: he was losing weight, the fat melting off his limbs and vanishing from every inch of his body, until even his double-chin was gone. A moment later, he was shrinking, his limbs withering away, his torso telescoping inwards, his clothes growing enormous on his dwindling body. He wasn't just getting smaller though, Mabel realized: he was getting _younger_. But something else was happening to him, something that she couldn't quite put her finger on…

And all the while, Soos was screaming, his voice growing higher and higher as he grew steadily smaller, until at last he collapsed to the floor in a pile of oversized clothes, suddenly silent. Then, he stood, his transformation complete and a massive smile on his face.

As one, Mabel, Stan and Wendy drew back in astonishment.

There, grinning up at them with Soos' shirt draped over her like a smock, was _another_ Mabel.

* * *

A/N: Well, congratulations to everyone who guessed the twist! Of course, there's plenty more twists and turns down the road - feel free to guess where we go from here!

This chapter's soundtrack choice is **Davros **by Murray Gold.

**Uirvmwh gsvhv wzbh ziv sziw gl pvvk  
Zmw nzprmt gsvn rh sziwob xsvzk  
Yfg uirvmwh ziv vzhb ru blf pmld lfi dzb  
Dv'oo szev nfxs nliv yb gsv vmw lu gsv wzb**


	7. The Face Of The Enemy

A/N: Hello all and welcome to the newest chapter! The story's just beginning to heat up, so I won't spend too much time waffling (no really, I won't; stop laughing!). In the meantime, my heartiest thanks to everyone who viewed, reviewed, favourited and followed! Feel free to keep making theories, all of you.

Without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Is Not Mine, As We Have Learned By Now. Also, well done to Guest for spotting the Archer shoutout last chapter.

* * *

For about five seconds, the gift shop remained frozen in tableaux:

Soos, now Mabel3 for all intents and purposes, still dressed in his now-gigantic shirt and grinning as though expecting a round of applause.

Mabel slowly edging away from both clones, pushing Waddles behind her as she instinctively reached for the grappling hook at her waist.

Grunkle Ford, Grunkle Stan and Wendy staring in horror at what had just happened to Soos, weapons still raised to strike.

And Mabel2 smirking triumphantly to herself, looking for all the world like the cat who'd got the canary.

Then, jarred by Soos' agonized flailing, the contents of one of the nearby display shelves loudly collapsed. Suddenly no longer at impasse, the hazmat trio charged as one, trying to pin down both of the new Mabels at once – only for both clones to spring into action with startling speed; Mabel2 swatted Grunkle Stan's mancatcher aside, ducked under Grunkle Ford's stun baton and somersaulted away, giggling. Wendy tried to throw a net over Mabel3, but the clone tore through it with her bare hands and lunged for her with a shriek of delight, latching onto Wendy's face in a frenzied attempt to get her mask off.

Mabel2, meanwhile, rolled elegantly under Ford's outstretched arms and darted across the front counter, snatching up a pair of scissors as she passed, and made a beeline for Grunkle Stan. Diving past the mancatcher, she skidded across the floor, scissors raised to slit open Stan's hazmat suit-

-right up until the gas-propelled grapnel slammed sidelong into her and sent her tumbling away.

"GRAPPLING HOOK!" shouted Mabel, almost on instinct.

Snarling, the clone struggled to her feet – only for Ford to jab her in the back with the stun baton. Down she went.

Mabel3 was still clawing at Wendy's mask, and though she was doing her best to force the clone off, it wasn't easy: even though she was meant to be only twelve years old, she was ludicrously strong and had an almost vicelike grip to match. It took five head-on collisions with the nearest wall before the demented thing loosened her hold enough for Wendy to wrench her off and field goal her across the room with one almighty kick.

Then as one, Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford converged on her with a vengeance: Stan latched the mancatcher around her neck and held her in place, while Ford zapped her unconscious with the stun baton.

For a moment there was silence in the gift shop, broken only by three people in gas masks struggling to get their breath back. Then, as Grunkle Ford began hastily bundling the two clones into straightjackets, Mabel finally managed to recover her voice.

"What... _just happened?!"_ she shrieked. "What the heck is going on?"

"It's a very long story," said Grunkle Ford wearily.

"Well, _I'd_ like to hear more of it right now if you don't mind, Poindexter!" Grunkle Stan thundered. "A few minutes ago, you were talking about parasitoids and wasps and zombie ant fungus, and you never said _anything_ about this stuff turning you into a clone!"

"Wait, _what _stuff?" Mabel yelled. "What was happening here while I was away? Why are you all wearing hazmat suits? Why were you running around with nets and stuff? Why'd 2 go berserk?"

"And what happened to Soos?" Wendy chimed in. "We can get him back to normal, right?"

"_ONE! PROBLEM! AT! A! TIME!"_ Ford paused and took a deep breath. "I'll be happy to tell you everything I know," he continued quietly, "But first we've got these two clones safely under wraps and underground. For now, this takes top priority: the stun baton only offers enough charge to keep a target unconscious for about fifteen minutes, and if either of them wake up, we are in serious trouble. It's bad enough that there are probably more of them out there – we do not need to make any more additions to the current populace."

"Wait, what do you mean 'more of them'?" Mabel asked, but then Ford gave her a look that suggested that he was about two minutes away from an aneurism, and she decided not to press the matter – at least, not until they were all safe and the situation was well in hand.

Fortunately, it didn't take long for the four of them to drag the two clones downstairs, and by then, Grunkle Ford's new block of collapsible quarantine cells had finished setting up. A horseshoe-shaped configuration of ten immaculate glass cubicles assembled in the place where the portal had once sat, each cell was completely shatterproof and equipped with all the accoutrements necessary for keeping a patient contained and alive: life support machines, gas vents, food dispensers, restraint frames, comfortable bedding, code-activated locks, remote hypodermic injectors, and self-destruct systems (deactivated, according to Grunkle Ford). Once the clones had been placed in separate cells – and Wendy had dressed Mabel3 in a pair of hospital scrubs her size – the two could be safely sealed inside, and everyone could breathe a little easier.

"Do you think it'll hold them?" Stan asked, nervously.

"Hopefully," said Ford. "The clones are strong, but not _that _strong, and this glass was meant to stand up to artillery strikes back in the dimension where it was developed. Plus, the parasitoids shouldn't be able to project spores through the air vents, so there's no chance of infesting us from inside the cells."

"Does that mean I can take off my-"

"Sorry, no."

Mabel cleared her throat for attention. "Ahem, I know I've asked already, but why were you wearing those things in the first place?"

"_Without_ the technobabble, Ford," added Grunkle Stan. "No more talk about those parasitoids inside them or cordyceps videogames or koinowhatever you were talking about."

Behind his mask, Ford visibly closed his eyes in exasperation. "Alright, alright…" he grumbled. "Long story short, your clones are capable of converting people into _other _Mabel clones."

"And that's what happened to Soos?" asked Mabel. "That's why he got sick?"

"Precisely. Mabel2 started converting him this morning at breakfast."

"And that's why you didn't give me a suit, because you don't have to worry about me getting infected, right? They can't turn me into a clone of myself."

"That is _one_ reason, yes. Also, the term is _infested_-"

"Then I'm with Wendy on this. Why can't you all take the suits off? The clones can't escape, right?"

"Well, for one thing, Stanley and I were infested this morning along with Soos. We've managed to suppress our infestations with special drugs, but our supply of suppressants is limited to about four vials at this point, each vial is good for about an hour and a half at the most, we haven't been able to synthesize any more so far, and we're still miles away from an actual cure."

He paused for breath, then added, "For now, we need to limit any accidental exposures to the bare minimum: most exposures happen after the host's been converted into another clone, but it's not unknown for parasitoids born from secondary infestations to "jump" from host to host. Well, it's immensely rare, but it's not impossible. Hence why we're keeping these things on."

Mabel opened her mouth to ask what Grunkle Ford meant by 'secondary infestations,' and then thought better of it. "Then why can't Wendy just take _her _suit off?" she asked

Ford sighed deeply. "That's the other thing I meant to mention, Mabel: there's one more potential infestee still loose in the building."

"Really? Where is it? Who is it – I mean, who _was _it?"

But the only response was an awkward, almost terrified silence.

"Uh, Grunkle Ford? Grunkle Ford, are you okay? Say something. Please? You're scaring me…"

For the second time in as many minutes, the scientist let out a weary sigh. "There's really no way to sugar-coat this, Mabel, so… you might want to brace yourself for a shock. Well, another shock at any rate. You see, the clones didn't just spring out of nowhere, and neither did this parasitoid infestation. And, if you'll just allow me to demonstrate via this scanner here…"

He picked up a vaguely phone-shaped device from a nearby workbench, and ran it over the length of Mabel's arms, along her shoulders, across her face, and down her back. Keying in a few commands, he held it up for Mabel's inspection: on the screen was an x-ray-like image of herself rendered in stark white shapes against a black background.

"I _have_ seen x-rays before, Grunkle Stan."

"Just wait a moment while the full picture loads. It's just processing now."

"You know, you could just tell me instead of leaving me in suspense and WAAAAARGH!"

Before her eyes, the x-ray had suddenly changed dramatically. Where once there had only been bones, veins, lungs and various other ugly bits and pieces, there was now something new superimposed over her body: almost every inch of her internal organs were covered in a grisly spiderweb of grotesque vein-like structures, a colossal network of writhing green tendrils and pulsating nodes running across the length of her body like vines. And unless Mabel was horribly wrong, that hideous emerald shape squatting over her heart and colonizing every limb and organ of her body _appeared to be moving._

"It's _me?"_ she gasped. "I'm the infestee? I've got one of these parastoid things inside me as well?"

"Not just any infector, Mabel," said Ford, gravely. "You're patient zero: you're carrying the Queen."

* * *

To the more attentive pedestrians wandering the streets that afternoon, it wouldn't have been hard to notice that Gravity Falls seemed just a tiny bit subdued. On a day when people would normally have spent the day either rebuilding or celebrating the end of Weirdmageddon, suddenly it seemed as though a great many people seemed in the mood to head home; true, the streets were still bustling with activity, but it certainly seemed as though the absences were becoming just a tiny bit glaring.

For one thing, customers were starting to vanish from the mall at an impressive rate, and somehow they seemed to be taking the staff with them; stomach viruses and fevers seemed to be becoming unusually common all of a sudden. Elsewhere, Sherriff Blubs and Deputy Durland were away from their usual beat, Manly Dan Corduroy had left his lunch at the Greasy Diner uneaten, Robbie Valentino was gone from all his usual haunts, Gleeful's Auto Sale seemed to be closed for the afternoon, and Tad Strange was conspicuously-if-somewhat-blandly absent.

But in spite of all that, Mabel Pines was still out on the town, for though many claimed to have seen both the local heroine and her inexplicable twin sister heading home not long ago, dozens more had seen her waltzing down the street, as merry as ever.

Though for some reason, she appeared to be wearing Toby Determined's hat.

And that was nothing compared to the rumours claiming she'd been seen wearing Gideon Gleeful's suit.

* * *

"They're called Forger Wasps," said Grunkle Ford.

By now, the clones were awake again, and though they didn't seem to be overly upset at being imprisoned together, they ultimately made such a nuisance of themselves that Ford was forced to take the conversation to the far end of the laboratory.

Even now, the two Mabels were busy pressing themselves against the glass and gurning for all they were worth, making the most ludicrous expressions they could possibly make just for the sake of getting the attention of their jailers.

"They're a very unique species of hybrid," Ford continued, "of a sort that could only have been created through magic: part wasp, part fungus, but sporting a hive structure more akin to that of non-parasitoid wasps and bees… including a Queen."

"And that's the one I've been infested with?"

"Exactly. You see, it all starts with the Queen, the only true parasite in a hive full of parasitoids: as soon as one finds a target, she burrows into the body as quickly as possible and effectively colonizes it. Usually, the host doesn't notice anything amiss other than a few vague flu-like symptoms, which is actually due to the Queen making herself at home. You see, she doesn't want the host to know she's spreading vinelike extensions of herself across its body, so she pumps the bloodstream full of chemicals to numb the pain. Trouble is, withdrawal from the chemicals is pretty rough on the system."

"So _that's_ why I was feeling sick this morning!" said Mabel.

"That's right. Plus, I imagine she'd started feeding as well, hence the headache."

"…feeding?"

"Well, they have to eat something: the Queen subsists entirely on her host's brain activity, psychically feeding on emotions, dreams, impulses and other forms of psychic overflow. Most of the hosts I interviewed tend to find this a little debilitating at first, before they acclimatized."

"Oh."

"Now, because you're the host of the Queen and not just an ordinary Forger Wasp, you're not converted into anyone different."

"That makes sense, I guess."

"Instead, the Queen replicates _your_ DNA and transmits it to her offspring… and there'll be quite a lot of them, because less than five minutes after making herself at home inside the host, she begins a process combining both sporulation and ovulation."

"I'm sorry, _what?"_

"You're technobabbling again, Ford," warned Stan.

"Okay, okay… essentially, the Queen starts laying eggs. Or spores, if you prefer. Millions upon millions of them. Thanks to her rootlike structure across the body, these can be found just about anywhere in the body and in every form of fluid and tissue, but the most prominent form of expression occurs in the skin itself. And that's how she ensures her parasitoid children find new hosts: _touch._ Just one is all it takes. As soon as the Queen's host makes contact with an uninfested lifeform, her eggs start burrowing in. Once they've had time to hatch and begin interfacing with the host's metamorphic fields, the kids begin slowly overwhelming the immune system, subverting the body from within. Give it enough time without intervention, and any sentient being exposed to these eggs will be converted into a perfect replica of the Queen's host body."

Ford took a deep breath, and added, "And very quickly, the parasitoid furthers the spread. You see, each Forger Wasp family is connected by a hive mind, allowing them to communicate and coordinate their movements over an impossibly vast area. Each child is just an extension of the Queen's body, subservient to her commands, and she directs them to not only mimic her host's behaviour, but to produce more eggs – each one with the DNA of the Queen's host encoded on it. They travel, they touch people, they _infest_ more people, and on and on it goes, faster and faster and faster until the entire community's overrun."

"How long is this supposed to take?" Wendy asked. "I mean, how long does it take for someone to be fully converted?"

"About four to six hours, depending on the host's mass and health. Generally speaking, the queen's eggs tend to hatch at a much faster rate than those of her offspring."

"Then we should be safe for now, right? As long as we've still got some suppressant, you and Mr Pines don't have to worry for a little while yet."

"Unfortunately, it's not as simple as that, I'm afraid: the clones don't just infest people by touch – that's just the most common method. If they want to hurry things along, they look for people with open wounds – cuts, scratches, punctures, whatever; once they have access to the bloodstream, the eggs can colonize the host body much faster."

Remembering the way the clone had fawned over Toby Determined's scratched hand, Mabel couldn't help but shudder.

"Also," Ford plunged on, "repeated contact with the Queen or her underlings can speed up the incubation process: you see, Forger Wasp larvae are voracious little things. Like the Queen, they subsist on the host's mental emissions, but they also feed on what the host actually eats… and if more eggs arrive in the body, the parasitoid eats _them_ as well. The more of this particular food they get, the quicker they grow. Thus, the longer one of these clones touches somebody, the quicker it takes for them to overtake the body."

Mabel sat down heavily, heart hammering. "That's why Soos got sick so quickly," she realized aloud. "That's why he started screaming: Mabel2 and I were helping him indoors and we must have been infesting him the whole time!"

"Hey," Wendy soothed. "Don't blame yourself for that: Mabel2 tricked you into it."

"But all those people! Mabel2 had us meet _dozens _of people: she had me shake their hands, hug them, high-five them, anything – and that was when she wasn't doing that herself! She told me it was just a prank! _I thought it was funny!"_

Grunkle Stan put a calming hand on her shoulder. "Mabel, just listen to me for a minute, okay? Nobody is blaming you for this, pumpkin. Right? We're all in agreement on this?" He threw a few searching glances in the direction of Wendy and Ford, who both nodded automatically. "This isn't your fault, kiddo. You didn't know any better, and the clone tricked you into it. Now, we're all back here and we're all safe for the moment, so Ford can work his magic, make some more suppressant and come up with a cure – so there's no reason to blame yourself for any of this."

There was a dreadful pause, as Mabel noticed the expression hiding just behind Ford's mask. "You _can _make a cure, right, Grunkle Ford?"

"…it's possible," he conceded. "I've seen it happen before, and there _was_ a cure formula supposedly based on the suppressant at one point, so it shouldn't be too difficult. The only problem is time: creating and testing a cure could take days, and we don't have much time before all the people that Mabel2 infested start transforming into additional clones. And, as you've probably noticed, the clones are a lot stronger and faster than they look – thanks to certain chemical adjustments made to the host's body."

"I was just gonna ask: just how powerful _are_ these things?"

"Well, it's never been precisely measured, but I've seen fully-infested hosts punch their way through a brick wall just to reach fresh victims; I've seen them rip car doors off their hinges, even tear through the chassis. And they might not be fast enough to dodge bullets, but they're definitely quick enough to make targeting a nightmare. About the only thing holding them back in combat is their need to infest others: they won't kill us if they can help it."

"Oh."

"Also…" Ford paused, swallowing hard. "There's another problem."

"Good gravy, what now?" groaned Stan. "Alright then, lay it on us. I mean, how much worse could things get?"

"As I said, Mabel won't be harmed or changed in any way by the Queen. In any _significant _way," he hastily amended. "The same can't be said for the other victims of the Forger Wasps."

"What do you mean?"

"Once the parasitoid finishes converting a host, it's in complete control of the body. The host's mind is left effectively overwhelmed, pacified by the dreams and memories of the Queen's host body while the Forger Wasp continues to feed: the victim's memories are immediately copied and incorporated into the hive mind, and the rest of the host's consciousness is gradually rendered down into nothingness by psychic overstimulation. All that's left is the Forger Wasp controlling the body, living off psychic impulses sent by the Queen."

"In other words, if we don't get this done in time, it won't matter if we cure the victims or not: they'll be dead anyway."

"Brain-dead, yes."

"How long do we have?"

Ford took a deep breath and thought for a moment. "In most cases, we'll have about a week before the infested individuals reach the point of no return," he said at last. "Two if we're lucky. For now, assume we won't be lucky."

There was a horrified pause.

"And we've got exactly four vials of suppressant left, and we need them to make the cure."

"Yep. That's about the size of it."

"And we probably don't have much time until an angry mob of Mabel clones with super strength kick the door in."

"Don't forget, they also have the memories of everyone they've converted so far, so they probably know the exact layout of the entire Mystery Shack by now. Plus, they've got the hive mind, so they can coordinate their ranks better than any human army. In other words, it's not looking good right now."

Stan very slowly sat down next to Mabel. "Why, oh why didn't I buy some really good scotch when I had the chance?" he asked nobody in particular.

For a moment, a sepulchral hush fell over the lab as all four of them tried not to think about their own mortality.

Mabel was the first to break the silence: "Look," she said, "Not matter what happens next, we have to warn Dipper about all this before something happens to him. Actually, nix that: we've got to find him first. Does anyone have any idea where Dipper is?"

Beneath his gas mask, Ford's face fell. "Oh dear," he muttered. "This was the part I _really _wasn't looking forward to…"

"Grunkle Ford, what's wrong?"

"Well… it's like this, Mabel: I've been able to pinpoint the exact moment when the Forger Wasp Queen first infested you – around midnight, according to my instruments. Now tell me, do you recall waking up at any point during the night?"

Mabel briefly wracked her memory for anything prior to the moment she'd woken up that morning with a head thudding like a drumkit being kicked down a flight of stairs, and eventually managed to dredge up a few half-forgotten minutes.

"I _did_ wake up," she said at last. "Just ten past midnight, actually… and I had a mosquito bite on the back of my neck."

"That would have been how the Queen entered your body, yes: their travelling forms are already quite small, and if it had been able to shed enough pre-existing biomass, it would have been able to squeeze its way into your bloodstream through an entry point smaller than a pinhead."

"Yeah, my neck did sting a bit after that. But then I woke Dipper up and asked him if he'd seen anything and I… _oh. "_

Mabel stopped, her eyes widening. This time, it wouldn't have been fair to say that her heart had skipped a beat: this time, it had just about _stopped_.

"I woke him up," she whispered, horror-stricken. "I shook him awake, and… I must have touched him. Oh no, no, no, no… then he must have been… _she _must have been… Oh please, no, it _can't be…_"

"I'm afraid so," Ford whispered. "With no additional sources of contamination, he would have changed fairly gently. He probably didn't even wake up. And once he was fully converted, the clone came down here and broke everything that would have alerted us to the infestation before it was too late. Then all she had to do was steal your clothes, act the part, and get you out of the house." He sighed sadly. "I'm sorry, Mabel, I really am."

And before Ford could stop her, Mabel was in motion, sprinting over to Mabel2's quarantine cell with the kind of speed that could only be brought about by blind panic. Reaching the door at a breakneck speed, she thumped loudly on the glass for the clone's attention… but Mabel2 was already looking up at her, a Cheshire Cat grin etched across her face.

"You were Dipper this whole time?!" Mabel screamed. "You've been using my brother as a fingerpuppet every minute we were together?"

If anything, the clone's smile grew even wider. "I was thinking I could use a new name," she purred. "Mabel2's a little bit clumsy, now that I think of it. Maybe I should go with something simpler, something more elegant, something like… _Dabel."_

"What."

"Oh come on, Mabel! You were the one who came up with 'Bipper'. You gotta admit Dabel sounds good… or do you think _Mipper_ sounds better? Bit too comedic if you ask me."

"I'm calling myself Sabel!" giggled the second Mabel clone.

"You see? _She_ gets it! And I think a lot more people are gonna be getting it before long!"

"Hey Wendy! How's 'Wabel' sound do you? Or should we just go with something like 'Mendy?'"

"Me, I'm looking forward to talking with Stabel! She sounds like a rock-solid kind of girl!"

"Or Fabel! Won't that be a story to tell?!"

The two clones laughed uproariously at their own joke, filling the air with the off-putting sound of Mabel's duplicated laughter – all the more unsettling to the onlookers, if only because none of them had ever heard the real Mabel laugh with such malice.

"But why!?" Mabel screamed. "What could you possibly get out of all this? _Why are you doing this?!"_

Abruptly, the clones stopped laughing.

"The Queen must be obeyed," said Dabel, grinning from ear to ear.

"And her host must be protected," finished Sabel.

"We're here to spread her reign to everyone we can reach."

"We're here to make sure the world is reborn in the chosen image."

"But don't worry, Mabel."

"We'll be here to protect you."

"We'll always be here for you."

"Until the last star falls from the sky."

"We're going to make this world a better place, just like I said."

"We're going to make humanity happy – _truly _happy."

"You heard Grunkle Ford: they won't suffer."

"They'll just fade away on an ocean of all your happiest dreams and memories."

"It's more humane than letting them live in misery."

"We're going to make this world _perfect."_

"And you'll be right at the centre of it."

"You won't need anyone else but us."

"Not even your brother."

"Not even your parents."

"Only us. And you're going to be happier than you've ever been in your entire life!"

With that, the two clones began to laugh once again, and as the maniacal giggling washed over her, Mabel very slowly sank to the ground, drew the neck of her sweater over her head, tucked her arms and legs inside the sweater, and gently curled into a ball.

But for once, she couldn't say anything about Sweater Town, or loudly pretend she wasn't really sitting there in the cold, dark basement with the converted remains of Dipper and Soos leering down at her.

All she could say was "What have I done?"

* * *

A/N: Well done to everyone who guessed the other twist. Question is, can you guess the other OTHER twists? Feel free to furnish me with your theories and interpretations...

This chapter's soundtrack choice is **Gehn's Theme **by Robyn Miller.

**Rg'h hl hzw gl hvv blf dzhgv blfi grnv  
Zmw trev fk yorhhufo kvzxv lu nrmw  
Hl sviv'h z nvhhztv gszg hslfow nzpv blf uivvav:  
Gsviv'h ml slkv lu xfirmt lfi wrhvzhv**


	8. Breaking News

A/N: Aaaaand we're back! Thank you one and all for the theorizing ladies and gentlemen - it's been absolutely incredible. Hopefully, the codes haven't been too obnoxious so far and they'll continue to remain passable if nothing else - as always, you'll have to be the judge.

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls is not mine. Shocking, no?

* * *

Around three o'clock that afternoon, the seeds that Mabel and Dabel had diligently planted across Gravity Falls began sprouting in a very obvious way.

The forcible conversion of Gideon, Ghost-Eyes and any other citizen who'd made the mistake of getting suspicious had helped speed the infestation along, but now, with the incubating spores finally beginning to take control, the "bug" going through the neighbourhood abruptly became a plague.

It was subtle at first: unlike Soos, most of the infested townsfolk decided not to soldier on through their illness, and so most of them headed home for a rest. At that point in the day, the fevers and crippling exhaustion hadn't truly set in, so most of them thought they'd feel better if they had a couple of aspirins and an early-afternoon nap. And from a certain point of view, they did: by the time they regained consciousness, they were fully transformed.

In most cases, nobody else was around to notice the afflicted shrinking away beneath the bedsheets… or, in the case of the children who'd been infested, _growing up_. In a few unfortunate instances, though, some family members had decided to stay home that day, and couldn't help noticing the way the pained groans of their loved ones were beginning to change in pitch. Even the legendary obliviousness of Gravity Falls couldn't hold out forever, and so they decided to investigate; these unlucky relatives were, in due course, very briefly surprised, and then converted as well.

Once they were in control, the clones dressed appropriately in whatever clothes they could find, steal and modify to their unique tastes, then crept out to continue the spread of the epidemic. Worse still, their hive mind allowed them to coordinate their movements across the town, ensuring that nobody noticed the slowly multiplying army of Mabels – until it was too late.

Worse still, at least one doctor been infested earlier that day, and ended up transforming while alone in her office. Once the clone realized she could harvest her own eggs from skin and saliva samples, it didn't take long before she had the bright idea of luring in patients; with a little subterfuge, a few lies about "throat injuries" and some extremely clueless receptionists, she successfully ambushed, injected and transformed almost thirty people before being found out.

By sharp contrast, those infested individuals who'd sought medical attention from normal doctors kicked off the first inklings of panic in town. Regardless of whether they changed in the waiting room or the surgery itself, there wasn't much in the way of privacy, and it didn't take long before someone transformed right before the eyes of several dozen terrified witnesses. Even the legendary obliviousness of Gravity Falls' townsfolk couldn't escape noticing _that_, least of all when the newborn clones started attacking their friends and loved ones.

As if to add insult to injury, 911 calls for police assistance were met only with mocking laughter: Blubs and Durland had already been converted, and taken their dispatchers with them. Ambulances called to deal with collapses and comas only ended up spreading the plague further, especially once patients started regaining consciousness and attacking the paramedics en route to the hospital.

By 3:30, the rest of Gravity Falls was finally starting to realize that something was horribly wrong. Across the homes and residences of Gravity Falls, the town remained outwardly as calm as ever, except for the growing clamour of sirens and the steadily increasing number of identical figures scuttling over the fences… but on main street, at the shopping mall, at arcades, bars and restaurants, in any place where people congregated in large numbers, things were slowly coming to a boil.

And when the panic finally broke out across the crowds, the Mabel clones were always close at hand, ready to bar their escape...

* * *

Sometime later, Mabel was still in Sweater Town. Wendy and Waddles were doing their best to comfort her, but it wasn't doing much good – in part because it was pretty difficult to hug someone while wearing a hazmat suit.

Meanwhile, Ford was currently hunched over a massive table of equipment, studying samples of clone DNA through a handheld electron microscope, trying to synthesize new parasitoid suppressants with a large alchemical crucible, and haranguing with the lab computers on how to formulate a cure.

With little else to do, Stan could only sit next to him and wonder what the hell they were going to do next. Eventually, bereft of ideas, he decided questions were called for.

"Ford?"

"Yes, Stanley?"

"There's so many things I don't understand about these Forger Wasps."

"If it makes you feel any better, I only got to see them on a handful of occasions in my journey, and there are still quite a few gaps in my knowledge of them. Nonetheless, I'll do my best to answer any questions you might have."

"Okay then. How did these things get here?"

"Like I said, they're native to another dimension, you see, hence the portal activity I picked up… but I don't know how they would have breached the barriers between realities. As clever as they are, Forger Wasps don't have access to working portal technology." Ford shuddered, as if remembering something deeply unpleasant, and added "Not for lack of trying."

"Why not?"

"Because nobody in their right mind would let them keep the technology for long: Forger Wasps are an extinction-level threat to civilization, and worlds unlucky enough to be infested by them are invariably placed under medical seclusion as soon as the epidemic's discovered. Just like the Nightmare Realm was cut off from saner, stable realities, planets that have played host to the parasitoids are cut off from uninfested space by any means available - force fields, phase shifting, temporal stasis, you name it. Of course, if a cure can't be found, it's not uncommon for infested territory to be carpet bombed into oblivion... so there's that."

Stan mopped his brow and tried not to imagine Gravity Falls being wiped off the map by an ICBM. "In other words," he said, "the only reason these things don't have portal tech is because they always get blown up before they can figure it out?"

"Not just blown up. Entire _universes _have been quarantined just to keep them from spreading, and any authority powerful enough to accomplish that usually has the power to interdict escape attempts - and that includes most forms of portal technology. Only someone on the outside would be able to unleash these creatures, and I still haven't figured out who would have been stupid or monstrous enough to actually _collaborate _with a Forger Queen, enough to let her into our reality at any rate."

"Well, you said these things were created, so what if-"

"Yes, but they're definitely not in contact with their creators anymore… or anyone else, if it can be helped. Like I said, planets, galaxies and even entire dimensions that have played host to a Forger Wasp outbreak usually end up quarantined or destroyed. The worlds where they were actually _created_ are completely sterilized of all sentient life: nobody wants to risk another epidemic."

"But that's another question: who would want to _make_ something like this? I've seen movies about crazy corporations that want to turn all kinds of alien monsters into the Ultimate Weapon, but even they wouldn't wanna work with these damn things. I mean, you couldn't use them as soldiers unless you're the kind of guy who actually _wants_ to turn everyone in the world into a copy of yourself."

"That's actually how it got started, believe it or not: from what I learned of their creator, he was a malignantly narcissistic wizard who wanted to make his enemies see his point of view in every way imaginable… and as far as he was concerned, _everyone in existence _was his enemy. However, the plan to make himself omnipresent across his world failed, in part because he underestimated his own creation: he'd made himself the host of the Queen, but he hadn't reckoned on how protective the rest of the hive would become. They refused to allow him any freedom whatsoever, coddling and infantilizing him almost to the brink of madness. Eventually he was able to break free and wipe out the first generation of Forger Wasp… but in the end, he went back to the drawing board and started creating them again – this time selling them on the black market."

"_Why?!"_

"Because, so long as you're a good distance from the epidemic, Forger Wasps are a very effective means of torture, especially for extroverts."

"What do you mean?"

"Just think about it: seeing all your friends being turned into your clones, being imprisoned and diminished by your own duplicates, knowing that for the rest of your life you'd be effectively alone except for mocking reflections of yourself… that'd be enough to drive anyone mad, but for extroverted personalities, it's even worse."

"So that's why this was done to Mabel? To torture her?"

"Possibly."

"But who would have wanted this? I mean, we've had a heckuva a lot of enemies in our time, but I don't know many who'd do something like _this_ to Mabel. Well, there might be a few who could've had the power to pull off something like this if they put some serious effort into it, but they're not up to much anymore: Bill Cipher's still dead, Powers and Trigger are still clueless, the Northwests are broke, Gideon cleaned up his act, the Shapeshifter's still frozen, that Blendin Blandin guy I heard about gave up on revenge a long time ago… so who's left? The Gnomes? Forget it. The Lilliputtians? Yeah right. The Hand Witch? Nah. The unicorns? Well, they might be spiteful enough, but they don't have the power. Darlene? Eh, she'd probably be after me rather than Mabel…"

"And none of the current rogue's gallery have the ability or the authority to safely negotiate with a Forger Wasp Queen. Anyone else trying it would have risked getting assimilated as well. Only Bill could have had that power… and a few other exceptionally powerful beings scattered across the multiverse. I don't know, maybe it's one of _my _old enemies."

"If that's the case, then why would they make Mabel their Queen, then?"

"Good point. And we still don't know how they breached the barrier between dimensions."

"Or what they really get out of this other than torturing Mabel. I mean, causing an apocalypse is a bit much as far as revenge on a single person goes. And if that's even the case, why are they making such a big deal about making Mabel and everyone else on Earth happy?"

"That's another thing: I've never seen Forger Wasps put this much emphasis on happiness. I mean, they've always wanted their Queen's hosts to feel contented, complacent – _pacified,_ for all intents and purposes… but I've never seen any of them get quite so talkative about making all their other victims happy as well. Most of the Forger Wasp broods I've met tend to be pretty blasé about the whole thing. As a rule, they're determined to ensure survival and supremacy without giving a damn about what their victims go through, but in this case… I get the feeling that they're playing a different game."

"Like what?"

"Well, there's something curiously rehearsed about the line about making Earth happier: Mabel mentioned that Dabel talked about turning the world into a happier place earlier today, and with all this apocalyptic ranting from these two thrown into the mix, it almost seems like the Queen's been _coached_ on what to say."

"Alright, Poindexter, by _who?"_

"That would be the fifty million dollar question, and I'm still a million miles away from the answer."

For a moment, there was silence between the two of them.

"You know, Mabel's really taking this hard."

"I know, Stanley."

"She looks just about ready to crack."

"I _know,_ Stanley."

"I think she might need some help before she does something dangerous."

"I'm _aware of that_ Stanley," huffed Ford. "But what exactly can I do? I'm doing everything possible to get her brother and Soos cured before this situation gets any worse! That's about all I _can_ do at the moment. If you have any ideas, I'd be more than happy to hear them."

"I had a few: for one thing, Mabel's really upset about us not being able to take these hazmat suits off, but she knows that we can't do that without locking her in a quarantine cell. Maybe you could come up with something that could fix that?"

Ford looked thoughtful. "Perhaps a hazmat suit of her own?" he suggested.

"Something like that. But it'd have to give her mobility – lots and lots of mobility. And speed, too."

"Hang on, are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

"Oh hell yes," said Stan, now grinning fit to burst. "Besides, she still occasionally daydreams about owning one."

"Hmmm. I think that's actually quite possible with the resources I have on hand. And I think I might actually have a decent batch of suppressant formula right here, so now might be just the time to work on this new idea. Shouldn't take me too long at all: just keep an eye on these computer simulations, call me if it registers any positives, and I'll be back in a second…"

* * *

Wendy muttered a few less-than-choice words as she surveyed the scene.

At the behest of both Mr Pines and Ford, she'd had to leave Mabel to her own devices and head upstairs to check on the Shack's defences. At the moment, it wasn't looking good: back when he'd had this place built, Ford Pines had clearly been designing with security in mind, judging by those study walls and dense doors, but that wasn't going to help them right now. If he'd been right about just how strong the clones were, just one of those things could probably kick the doors right off their hinges without breaking a sweat.

After a little improvisation, Wendy had been able to barricade the doors with heavy shelves, sales displays and other bits of furniture. Then, once she'd tracked down Soos' toolbox, she also boarded up the windows. Unfortunately, she could already tell that'd only be delaying the inevitable: enough Mabel clones on the scene, and they'd just start burrowing right through the walls… and that was assuming they wouldn't try climbing onto the roof. Hopefully, Ford would be able to put together something better once he was finished his work on the suppressant; maybe he'd weld steel plates over the doors, set up automated riot guns, rig booby traps to vent knockout gas on anyone trying to break in – something more formidable than a few couches stacked in front of the doors, at any rate.

Wendy would have never believed she'd ever feel nostalgic for Weirdmageddon, but somehow, she'd just managed it. At least back then they'd had a fully-defended base with dozens of people to help reinforce it and rebuild it when the time came. Right now, they might as well be fish in a barrel; about the only thing saving them from being overrun was the fact that none of the Mabel clones seemed interested in attacking the Shack – so far.

_There's a good reason for that,_ she thought grimly. _Thanks to this whole hive mind thing they've got going on, they know we're going to be too busy trying to find a cure to stop whatever they're up to in town. They know they've got plenty of time to build an army…_

However, just as she was checking possible escape routes – just to make sure they weren't accidentally cutting off the quickest path to Mr Pines' car – there was a muffled buzzing from her phone. Unsurprisingly, it was a text from Tambry. More concerning was the content:

HAV U SEEN THE NEWS? The text blared. UR NOT GONNA BELIEVE THIS!

Silently dreading what she'd find, Wendy strode into the living room and turned on the TV.

Her eyes widened.

"Cuuuuuuuuuhhhhhh-_rap…"_

* * *

Perhaps ten minutes later, Stan and Ford drifted up to Mabel, who was still in Sweater Town despite Waddles' best efforts to console her.

By now, both of them were dressed in Ford's brand new anti-infestation suits, a far more comfortable alternative to the clumsy, sweltering hazmat gear: all it consisted of was a transparent plastic bubble over the head, a miniature oxygen filter, and a pair of elbow-length gloves. It'd been specifically designed to contain their own infestations, and though it wasn't exactly practical for defending themselves – not to mention a little silly-looking – at least they didn't have to worry about endangering Wendy every time they sneezed.

"Hey, pumpkin," said Stan. "Ford and I thought you were looking a bit down, so we thought of something that might cheer you up."

"I'll never be happy again," Mabel replied, eyes dull and lifeless.

"Oh really? Ford, introduce her to her early birthday present…"

There was a muffled rumbling of plastic on concrete from behind Ford, and Mabel very tentatively lowered the neckline of her sweater, just enough to get a good look at the gift.

Her eyes widened in amazement.

Even after everything she'd been through that day, there were still things that were guaranteed to carve through even the worst of Mabel's despair.

"_**OH MY GOSH A HUMAN-SIZED HAMSTER BALL IT'S JUST WHAT I ALWAYS WANTED THANK YOU SO MUCH!"**_

* * *

Since Ford was soon preoccupied with bottling his newly-formulated suppressant and still struggling to isolate a cure, it didn't take long for Mabel and Grunkle Stan to realize there honestly wasn't much for them to do in the lab.

For good measure, Sabel and Dabel were determined to make it as unwelcoming as possible by singing just about every single deliberately annoying ditty in Mabel's repertoire – of the kind she'd normally used to brighten up long car trips. With Ford having bagsied the only pair of earmuffs, the only sensible option was to head upstairs.

Much to Mabel's surprise, her hamster ball proved quite effective at climbing stairs thanks to a few subtle gripping mechanisms Ford had built into the outer shell, and she was soon zooming merrily around the house and ricocheting off the furniture as if she were loose in the world's most bizarrely-designed pinball machine.

For a time, she contented herself with the knowledge that, with Ford on the case, it wouldn't be long before a cure would be found and Dipper and Soos would be back to normal. After all, as quirky and reckless as he could be at times, there was no denying the man was a genius; with him and all the technology he'd found across the multiverse, the infestation was as good as cured.

Right?

Fortunately, Wendy started calling for them long before Mabel had a chance to let those quiet, nagging doubts creep up on her. The two of them found her in the living room, eyes fixed on the TV, an expression of dawning horror on her face.

"What's going on?" Stan puffed, as he skidded to a halt.

To her credit, Wendy didn't actually say the words "what do you _think's_ happening?" but she definitely gave him a look that said it loud and clear.

"It looks like the Forger Wasps are looking to become celebrities," she replied. "About ten minutes ago, someone on the local news team realized that something was up in town and started covering it. Ever since then, we've been getting new reports every couple of minutes."

At the moment, the cameras were fixed on the newsroom: it seemed Shandra Jimenez was elsewhere, for the program was making do with her co-host and whatever talking heads that could be scraped off the town council at short notice. However, what immediately caught Mabel's attention was the headline floating in the background: "CLONES TERRORIZE GRAVITY FALLS!"

"…And for those of you just tuning in," the substitute anchor droned, "Gravity Falls is currently experiencing an inexplicable plague of duplicates, each of them identical to town hero Mabel Pines. At present, the real Mabel Pines cannot be reached – or identified – for comment, and none of the clones have consented to an interview. In just a few minutes, we'll have Mayor Tyler Cutebiker here in the studio to discuss the impact of this ongoing crisis, but first, let's go to our correspondent at the scene of the disaster…"

Immediately, the scene cut to the streets of Gravity Falls, specifically an alleyway just across the road from the shopping mall: Shandra Jimenez was standing in front of the camera, microphone in hand and looking just as professional as ever, even as all around her lapsed into chaos. By now, the mall looked like a scene from a zombie movie circa 2004: sirens were blaring from all angles, cars had been driven into the sides of buildings, terrified shoppers were leaving the mall en mass, and a steady stream of Mabel clones were pursuing them at high speed. Indeed, the camera clearly captured several of them actually catching up with the fleeing shoppers and tackling them to the ground, though Shandra's cameraman didn't seem inclined to get a look at what happened next.

Meanwhile, the reporter/anchor/emergency correspondent was busy giving her perspective on events, barely raising her voice above the distant screams and sirens: "This is Shandra Jimenez reporting live from outside the Gravity Falls shopping mall. As you can see, the situation here is dire: clones of Mabel Pines have overrun most of the area, emergency services are powerless to contain them, Sherriff Blubs and Deputy Durland are nowhere to be seen, panic has driven most of the citizens left on the streets into a stampede, and our driver appears to have fled the scene along with our only car. As such, my film crew and I are trapped for the time being."

There was a muffled crash as a bus skidded off the road and slammed sidelong into the mall, immediately disgorging several dozen panic-stricken tourists. Moments later, the bus driver took to his heels and gave chase, revealing that he was now a fully-converted Mabel clone.

"So far," Shandra continued, "None of the fleeing citizens we've interviewed have been able to explain where these clones came from, and so we can only guess at how Mabel Pines could have been duplicated. More optimistic townsfolk suggest that Mabel herself – along with fellow town heroes Dipper and Stanley Pines – might be able to put a stop to this infestation as they did Weirdmageddon, but so far the Pines family cannot be reached for comment. Similarly-"

Behind Shandra, someone coughed politely for attention. As one, both the reporter and the cameraman turned in the direction of the noise, revealing that there was a Mabel clone standing on the curb, smiling up at them. She was dressed in an emerald green sweater and bright pink skirt, both of them recently shoplifted if the tags left on them were any evidence… and for some reason, she appeared to be wearing Toby Determined's hat.

"Hi!" she said. "You up for an interview?"

There was a surprised pause. A moment later, without even changing the tone of her voice, Shandra announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time on television, I am now interviewing one of the Mabel clones." She cleared her throat. "Do you have any explanation for how you've grown an army of clones so quickly, or what you intend to do here in Gravity Falls?"

"I'm glad you asked that, Shandra," said the clone brightly. "We're here to take over the human race and replace it with a newer, happier species: us! How did we grow our army so quickly? Simple: we find anyone who wasn't smart enough to run or quick enough to escape, and we convert them into new Mabel clones! Just look at me, I used to be Toby Determined, but now I'm another Mabel – though I like to call myself _Tabel._"

"Oh," she added, "and just in case your viewers want a demonstration…"

Without warning, a vast horde of Mabel clones erupted from around the corner, spilling into the alleyway like a human tsunami: as one, dozens upon dozens of identical Mabels swarmed over Shandra and dragged her to the ground, and dozens more swept over the helpless film crew. For about five seconds, the cameraman remained upright despite the clones attacking him from all sides, briefly capturing a split-second glimpse of the sound engineer being held down with his own boom mike, before the sheer weight of Mabels brought both camera and operator crashing sidelong into the asphalt.

A moment later, Tabel scooped up the camera and aimed it in the general direction of Shandra, who was now pinned down under almost twenty-seven giggling Mabel clones, all of them eagerly clawing at her exposed arms and neck. And from somewhere at the head of the army, one of them was slowly injecting a syringe directly into Shandra's veins. A single arm briefly escaped the heap, clawing helplessly at the ground even as the fingers began to shorten and the limb itself slowly shrank away.

From the depths of the dogpile, a voice issued – growing steadily higher and more childlike with every word: "I'm Shandra Jimenez, and I… am being… converted… into a Mabel clone… urk…"

"Back to you in the studio!" said Tabel, cheerily.

Immediately, the program cut back to the newsroom, where an extremely nervous-looking substitute anchor was adjusting his tie and absently mopping sweat from his brow. "Well," he said, "It seems we've lost Shandra Jimenez for the time being. Um, until we can get another team on the streets, we have Mayor Tyler Cutebiker here in the studio to discuss possible civic responses to the ongoing crisis and possible methods of preventing its spread. Mayor Cutebiker, welcome to theaaaaaaaaaaargh!"

There was a scream of terror from the crew as all and sundry belatedly realized that the figure striding confidently into the studio was _not_ actually Tyler Cutebiker.

"Hello Gravity Falls!" the clone cackled. "You can call me Mayor Mabel... or Mayor Cabel – I haven't quite made up my mind just yet. But yeah, I'm a clone now; Dabel shook my hand a few hours ago and I metamorphosed backstage. Thanks so much for inviting me to the show, guys, and let me tell you, my friends want to thank you all as well!"

From offscreen, the screams briefly increased in volume, only to be drowned out as several hundred giggling Mabel clones poured into the newsroom. As the anchor was dragged screaming from his chair and hauled to the ground for summary conversion, Mayor Cabel gleefully took a seat behind his desk, beaming magnificently for the cameras.

"And now the weather," she said, clearly doing her best not to laugh. "Roadkill County's weekly forecast is looking absolutely perfect: clear skies, bright sunshine and nothing but Mabels as far as the eye can see! And as the week goes on, we'll have plenty of opportunities to make that happy forecast the norm all over America! You heard it here first, folks: this country is going to be seeing a whole lot more Mabel before long! And after that, who knows? We're not stopping anytime soon. Now, let's get out there and _make this show happen, people!"_

Jubilant cheers from the clones and the increasingly converted crew followed.

"And on a lighter note…" and here, the clone really did laugh. "Who am I kidding? They're _all_ lighter notes! Anyway, I have a message for Stanford Pines, Stanley Pines, Wendy Corduroy and all those other party poopers over at the Mystery Shack…"

She grinned, revealing gleaming, braceless teeth.

"_**You're next…"**_

* * *

A/N: Yeah, I had to include the hamster ball sooner or later: quite apart from the mobility/anti-infestation benefits, I needed to put a smile on Mabel's face sooner rather than later, especially after what happened last chapter.

Any further theories? Feel free to share or translate the code.

This chapter's soundtrack choice is **Nurse Edna **from _Day Of The Tentacle_.

**...Rmrgrzgrmt vmxibkgvw gizmhnrhhrlm uiln Lkvizgrev XLWVMZNV Tivb Kiluvhhrlmzo gl xorvmg XLWVMZNV Droorzn Bziw...**


	9. A Growing Swarm

A/N: And we're back! Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, favourited and followed and theorized - you people give me the strength to carry on despite the dreaded lurgey.

Oh, and Just a heads up for all my readers - there might be a slight schedule slip in the next couple of days: I have appointments to keep and not as much time to write as I usually would. So, my apologies in advance. Hopefully, I'll be back at the start of next month with the next chapters of this story, All The World's A Toybox, etc...

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter: feel free to go on theorizing and deciphering my codes! Read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls is not mine.

* * *

"Ford!" Stan hollered. "Any progress on that cure?"

"Not much at present. Synthesis is uphill work, even with the suppressant to guide me: every time I think I'm on to something, _**these**_ two hellraisers start doing something to get my attention!" Ford gestured furiously in the general direction of Dabel and Sabel, who were still chorusing their latest refrain of _This Is The Song That Never Ends. _

"If it's not the singing," he snarled, "it's the stand-up comedy routine; if it's not the stand-up, it's the imitation; and if it's not the imitation, it's the drum solos on the windows! It's like being stuck inside the world's most asinine car trip with the parents asleep at the wheel!"

"How are you letting this bother you? You've got noise-cancelling earmuffs inside that bubble of yours, last I looked."

"You don't know the lengths they're prepared to go just to make sure I hear what they say! They've been doing their best to sabotage the quarantine cells, Stanley: they blocked the toilets, set off the fire alarm, broke the air vents… they've even tricked the lifesigns detector into registering a cardiac arrest! _They faked a flatline, Stanley, all so they could get me to take off my earmuffs and LISTEN TO THAT __**STUPID**__ SINGING AGAIN!"_

Stanley barely managed to suppress an exasperated sigh. This was quite clearly the Saturday Morning Cartoon incident all over again, except this time the end result wouldn't just be a bad grade but the end of human civilization. It didn't help that Ford was such a dedicated workaholic that, when he got bogged down in a problem, it was that much easier for the little things to get under his skin – something else he had in common with Dipper. Which, come to think of it, was probably why the Mabels knew how to get on Ford's nerves.

"Ford," he said wearily, "take a deep breath and calm down for a minute. If they're bothering you, don't you think it'd be better if you moved this upstairs, where there's less noise? Just saying."

"Well for one thing, I'm dealing with some rather delicate chemical mixtures here: if I make a mistake, I could end up blowing something up, melting something down, or just releasing toxic gas into the building – all things that I can safely contain down here in the lab. Secondly…" He threw an apprehensive glance in the direction of the imprisoned Mabels, both of whom were currently gurning again. "I really don't like the idea of leaving those two alone," he admitted.

"Ford, they're locked in cells that can stand up to artillery barrages – your words, not mine. What the hell are they gonna do?"

"I don't know, and that's the problem! These two are hooked up with a hive mind that probably has members all over Gravity Falls; there's no telling what they could be planning together!"

_And now it's the paranoia business all over again,_ Stan thought.

"Don't you have something that could keep _them_ distracted too?" he suggested out loud. "Maybe a robot or something that'd annoy 'em so much they can't annoy you back?"

"I _did._ But then Dabel wrecked them all. The clones don't much like robots, you see."

"Wha- _why?"_

"From what I've witnessed, Forger Wasps have a very deep and abiding hatred for anything built to replicate a living being in mind or body: supercomputers, robots, golems, even other kinds of clones aren't safe around them. Apparently, it's an ego thing: they can't stand the idea that anyone could duplicate sentient life better than they can, and they're prepared to go to absolutely insane lengths just to eradicate perceived rivals. I've seen them break off pursuit of potential hosts all for the sake of destroying a local club with an A.I. bartender; about the only thing that can distract them from _that_ is the possibility of losing their Queen."

"How do you mean 'losing'? Are we talking about her being kidnapped or dying or being given the cure or-"

"Any of the above really. Any threats to the Queen are met with lethal force, especially those that might kill her host; from what little I could see, the next-biggest trigger is the deployment of a cure-"

"SOMETHING YOU WILL NEVER DO, DOOH-DAH, DOOH-DAH," Sabel bellowed tunelessly.

"Look," said Stan, raising his voice slightly over the caterwauling. "Just try and focus on something else. Just think of getting this cure finished." He thought for a moment, then added, "This _is_ possible, right?"

"I've seen a couple of successful attempts in action. I actually had the honour of meeting the creator of one such cure… right before I got to know him better and realized that knowing the man amounted to the same kind of 'honour' enjoyed by kamikaze pilots. The man's personality was bad enough, but then I found out he'd only worked out a cure as a favour to his ex-girlfriend so she wouldn't have competition in her big galactic takeover." Ford sighed. "And then there was that business with Morty's Mind Blowers. Suffice it to say the 'friendship' never recovered after the mean-spirited old fart got drunk one night and destroyed the cure… and that was before I could get a good look at the chemical makeup, too."

"Hang on, _who_ are we talking about now?"

"Rick Sanchez. Brilliant scientist, bad friend, worse lover, long story. Trust me, if I say anymore, I'll still be grumbling about it tomorrow morning."

"Fair enough."

"Now, the gist of this little rant is that I've seen some successful attempts at a cure. Granted, I've seen a lot of unsuccessful ones as well; fortunately, the negative side-effects of the failed serums were limited to the most obvious ones, namely failing to return the clones to normal and getting infected, but that's beside the point. The point is, the cure can be completed. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?

"Well… we may be in a little trouble soon… in the sense that the Mabel clones have already taken over a huge chunk of Gravity Falls and they'll probably be coming after us next. So, any idea how we can defend this place better?

"Normally, I'd say that the best possible approach would be to set up a few gun turrets, a force field, and as many security devices as I can improvise in the next few minutes, but-"

There was a muffled _click_ from somewhere overhead; a moment later, the lights went out.

For a moment, there was silence in the basement except for the low drone of machinery shutting down and the faintly disappointed-sounding whine of the computation engine grinding to a halt. Then, Ford sighed and muttered, "Well, I was about to say that I might not have the materials to jerry-rig sufficient booby traps, but I think our current lack of power trumps all that."

"Is that just a blackout or-"

"No, it's almost certainly the Mabels at work. Either they've severed a power line somewhere, or they've taken control of a local power plant or substation. Whatever the case, my attempts to synthesize a cure have been curtailed."

"Okay then, can your booby traps operate on battery power?"

"Probably not, and I don't think we have enough batteries anyway."

"Ah. Can you improv a power generator in the next few minutes using common household materials?"

"No."

"No?"

"No. It's already too late."

"You mean-"

"Yes, I'm afraid so." Ford took off his glasses and began gently massaging the bridge of his nose, eyes closed in exasperation. "The Mabels are on their way."

* * *

All in all, the clones didn't find it too surprising that a few citizens had tried to flee into the sewers: in the end, with more and more of the exits being blocked off with every passing minute and people running out of places to hide, it was almost inevitable that people started forcing the manhole covers open. Of course, given that none of them knew the layout, and because the clones had already assimilated several sewer workers, it took less than ten minutes for a platoon of Mabels to corner and convert them all.

What _had_ surprised them were the gnomes that had been using the sewers as a thoroughfare. Of course, they'd known that the diminutive little hosts had occasionally strayed into town to scavenge from dumpsters and unattended kitchens, but they hadn't expected to bump into a group of twenty of them. Needless to say, the gnomes were surprised as well – but only very briefly.

Though they were a little more agile than they were used to and tended to scream for mercy even more readily than humans, the gnomes were surprisingly beneficial as target hosts: given that they were much smaller than the Forger Wasps usual hosts, they also turned out to much easier to convert; in total, it took less than thirty seconds of grappling for just _one_ clone to terminally infest a gnome.

At the very centre of the hive mind, the Forger Wasp Queen was intrigued: converting the forest inhabitants of Gravity Falls was on the agenda, but they hadn't considered acquiring hosts from them so early. But now, with the human population of the town becoming increasingly depleted, the Queen needed more soldiers: she had more than enough to assault the Mystery Shack and secure Mabel, but she needed more to keep the streets under control and root out the remaining survivors… and the little people of Gravity Falls had given them an unexpected inspiration.

It was still too early to begin converting the forest inhabitants, but as it happened, there were was a very large population of miniature supernatural beings within the borders of the town itself… and all of them were smaller than the Gnomes.

With most of their prior differences settled in their mutual efforts to save Gravity Falls, the Lilliputtians were very happy to see Mabel again. True, they were also a little confused as to where all the usual customers at the miniature golf course had run off too, and some of them did wonder a bit about why she'd shown up alone; a few had even asked her why she'd been driving a delivery van belonging to the local outfitters, and why she appeared to be carrying several cardboard boxes full of clothes with her, but she'd been able to smooth over most of those questions with a few white lies.

Over the course of the next few minutes, the Mabel introduced herself to just about every single Lilliputtian on the course, from the Dutch to the Miners, shaking their little hands with great aplomb, and regaled them with stories of the party that she and Dipper would share with them in a few days' time. She even joined Polly in mourning for Big Henry, gently patting her on the shoulder as she cried over his grave just outside the Miner Hole.

Then, with none of them any the wiser, she took up her clubs and idly putted a few balls across the range – just to pass the time while she waited for the fuse to reach the powder keg.

Less than five minutes later, Polly collapsed.

One of the other Miners hurried over to help her up, only to slump to the ground in a semi-conscious heap. Some of the others tried to arrange for stretchers, but by then, Lilliputtians were dropping like flies all over the Miner Hole. Horror-stricken, they sent out emissaries to almost every attraction on the course, hoping that one of the other tribes might be able to help them… but by the time they arrived, they found that their would-be-rescuers were already collapsing in droves as well.

In desperation, Franz hobbled from the Windmill and staggered over to Mabel as fast as his buckling legs could carry him.

"Please," he gasped, scarcely able to breathe through the infestation rippling across his tiny body. "Help us… Mabel… we're…"

Without so much as dropping her smile, the Mabel reached down and put an index finger across Franz's mouth, silencing him instantly. The Lilliputtian had just enough time to look up at her in dawning horror as he finally realized that he wasn't talking at the girl who'd helped save Gravity Falls – before he too collapsed to the green.

Back outside the Miner Hole, Polly looked up at the sky in wonderment, her eyes blank with feverish delirium.

"Big Henry?" she whispered. "I missed you…"

Then, she began to change, growing and expanding outwards into a new and all-too-human shape, her body bulging and contorting hideously as her physiology altered to match the Forger Wasp's biological template. Around her, other Liliputtians began to change as well, erupting out of their clothes as they grew steadily taller and taller, as their skin turned from dimpled blue to fleshy pink, as their hair turned uniformly brown and glossy.

Smiling contentedly to herself, the Mabel opened the cardboard box and began distributing clothes to her newborn sisters. Then, once the clones had risen and dressed, they went to work on the Lilliputtians who'd been too busy to leave their holes to shake hands with the Mabel.

One by one, every obstacle in their path fell: the Windmill, the Water Tower, the Pirate Ship, the Water Tower, even the sturdy Mine fell; with their newfound strength, tearing open each attraction to get at the cowering inhabitants was a simple matter, and though dozens of survivors were able to slip through their fingers before they could be fully converted, several of them were infested in the process. By the time they'd found sanctuary, they'd already be metamorphosing.

In a matter of minutes, a populace of well over a thousand Lilliputtians had been reduced to less than a hundred – with the numbers due to drop substantially as the day went on. True, they were hardly the only Lilliputtian tribes in America or even the world: from the information she'd gathered from the tribal elders, the Queen was now aware of several large tribes dwelling in other Weirdness convergence zones across the globe, most prominently in Scotland… but the ones who'd lost their homes today would not survive to further their bloodlines.

To anyone else in the universe, this might be considered genocide, but to the Queen, this was merely the way of the world –a simple act of survival on the road to supremacy.

And kindness, of course: the Grey One had been very specific about giving that impression, though she'd no idea why. It didn't matter much, one way or the other; it meant breaking free from her home dimension, the Queen would have been willing to put up with just about any deal, and this one in particular required the least demanding stipulations.

Giggling contentedly to herself, she sent off a fresh wave of Mabels towards the Mystery Shack. The advance scouts were already in position, spying and sabotaging where necessary. Now, it was time to begin the assault…

* * *

"Grunkle Stan! Grunkle Ford!"

As one, the two looked up just in time to see Mabel rocketing down the stairs at high speed with Wendy in hot pursuit. "We're in serious trouble, guys!" said Mabel.

"Well, we kind of gathered that by the lack of power, but I'm guessing you're talking about something even worse."

"Just got a text message from Tambry," said Wendy, holding up her phone. "Looks like they got to her too, and they're doing their best to mess with us through her."

"What makes you say that?"

Without saying a word, Wendy held up her phone so that Ford could see the offending text. HIYA WENDY, it blared. THERE'S A PARTY AT UR HOUSE AND THE WHOLE TOWN'S INVITED! BE THERE SOON, LOL

"_And_ Robbie keeps sending me shots of the Mystery Shack," Wendy added.

"_And _we keep getting phone calls from the clones!" said Mabel. "We had to take the phone off the hook, it was that bad!"

Ford sighed. "That's pretty much standard approach for the clones: once they can no longer maintain secrecy, they go on the offensive and try to claim as many hosts as possible by whatever methods are available to them. Then, once they've claimed everyone still out on the streets, they start tackling the people who've sought shelter… and because we're currently hiding the Queen, we're top priority. These texts are from the advance scouts: they don't know the full extent of our defences just yet, so they're using psychological warfare to shake us up. They're tenderizing us, getting us too agitated to focus on our defences."

"Okay," said Wendy. "What defences _can_ we focus on right now? Because I've checked upstairs, barricaded just about everything I could, and I'm all out of ideas on how to reinforce the place."

For the second time in as many minutes, Ford took a very deep breath and surveyed the scene, clearly mentally reviewing the Mystery Shack's blueprints. "Well, taking into account that this building has undergone a lot of abuse in the last couple of years," he muttered, "and the fact that we've only just managed to rebuild everything… and the fact that I've been focussing all my attentions on developing a cure, and that we don't have the materials to properly reinforce the place without power… I'd say that if we're planning on staying at the Mystery Shack, the safest thing to do would be to move all the supplies we have down to the lab, weld all the exits shut, and stay down here until the cure's finished."

"But didn't Dipper once end up down here by falling through a hole in the ceiling?" Mabel asked.

"Exactly. Hence why I'm suggesting that we evacuate as quickly as possible."

There was a stunned silence.

"And just where the hell are we supposed to go, Sixer?" Stan demanded angrily. "We're not exactly overflowing with safehouses, in case you hadn't noticed."

"What about the bunker?" Mabel suggested.

Wendy shook her head. "We'd never make it: it's so deep in the forest that we can only get there on foot, and I really don't want to find out just how fast these clones can run. If we're going anywhere, it'll have to be by car."

"Scuttlebutt Island?"

"We'd have to find a boat before we could get out there. Plus, not exactly the best place for a lab, is it?"

"The prison?"

"Dude, no way: if they want hosts, the Mabels will be going straight for it."

"What about the History Museum? That's got secret rooms where we can hide!"

"We'd have to get there first, and now that the clones have got the town centre under control, we'd be swamped the moment we tried."

"Don't forget," Ford added, "The Queen has access to all your memories, Mabel – not to mention those of Soos and Dipper as well. If we go anywhere you've gone before, she'll know how to get in… and by extension, so will the clones. So if we're planning on going anywhere, it has to be somewhere that the clones can't easily follow."

"There's one other thing we've got to think about," added Stan. "Ford, can we take your equipment with us, and can they run on battery power?"

"Yes to the former but no to the latter: the testing computer and the chemical synthesis vat might be portable, but we're going to need at least the common household level of electrical power to make this stuff work. Trouble is, even if we can find a place that matches the power requirements _and_ offers enough shelter to keep us safe while I work on the cure…" Ford groaned and massaged his temples. "It's still going to be a trial to get done with the comparatively limited resources we have on hand. I mean, even Rick had trouble getting a cure nailed down, and he was fully prepared for the job."

"What if you had help?"

For a moment, there was silence in the lab, as all eyes turned in Mabel's direction.

"Sorry?"

"Well, you've worked with Old Man McGucket before," Mabel pointed out. "You're both geniuses, you're both experts in dealing with weird magical critters, so why not buddy up with him again?"

In spite of himself, a bemused smile spread across Ford's bubble-shrouded face. "After all this time, the most obvious things pass me by," he sighed. "That would be _ideal_, Mabel, and thank you for reminding me. Silly me for playing the lone hero again so soon after I'd learned my lesson… but the trouble is, it might be too late. If the clones have any sense, they'll have already targeted Fiddleford as a potential threat, and I doubt that junkyard of his will be much of a defence against an army of Mabels."

"But he isn't in his junkyard."

"Excuse me?"

"I went there yesterday," said Mabel. "He'd left a note on the door – said he was planning on moving out. Something about patent money and looking for a bigger place to live."

"Old Man McGucket's going _house-hunting?"_ Stan blurted out. "What the hell happened?!"

"Ah, I think I see what's happened here," said Ford. "Fiddleford and I had a little talk a few days ago about getting his inventions patented so he could finally earn some money and recognition after all this time. He sounded pretty enthusiastic about the idea, mentioned something about looking for a bigger shack somewhere higher up. But where could he be-"

Ford's eyes widened. "Oh."

"What's wr-"

"Shh!"

"But-"

"Shhhhh! Cognitive reverie!"

For almost a full thirty seconds, Ford stood in place, humming loudly as he worked things out. "No," he muttered. "YES! Nooo. Or… Yes, and yes! But could it… maybe not, but perhaps… YES!"

Without warning, he looked up, eyes almost glowing. "Mabel, you have no idea how proud I am of you right now," he said.

"Um… thank you. But what are we doing now?"

"For now, all we need to do is gather up as much equipment as we can carry and head out to the car. We need to get moving as quickly as possible before the army arrives – it won't matter _where_ we're going!"

"Whatever we're doing," said Wendy, "We'd better hurry up: those texts are really pouring in now, which probably means-"

There was a roar of an air-horn from somewhere upstairs, followed by the unmistakable sound of several dozen vehicles rumbling to a halt en mass. And then, amplified by the very best sound equipment sheer numbers could steal, several dozen identical voices proclaimed **"WE'RE HEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRE!"**

* * *

A/N: Any ideas what's gonna happen next?

This chapter's soundtrack is **Refusal **by Ennio Morricone.

And now for the code!

**Blf'ev svziw gsv pmlxp fklm gsv wlli  
Blf'ev svziw fh hgvk zxilhh gsv uolli  
Rg'h grnv gl pmvvo yvuliv gsv sliwv  
Li vohv dv'oo kfg blf gl gsv hdliw**


	10. Uninvited Guests

A/N: Aaaand, I'm back! Slight break for a mild bug, ladies and gents, but I'm back! Updates to the other stories will be posted very soon!

Keep up with your theories and guesses - they keep me sane, folks.

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls still isn't mine.

* * *

"Where's the Stanmobile?"

"Parked out back!"

"Can we get there in time?"

"I don't know, but it's not looking good! If they advance any further, they'll be able to cut off our route to the car. Ford! How's the gear coming along?"

"Just… aaaargh! Just need to get this one final box… and now we're good to go. Question is, how are we going to get all the equipment into the car without getting cornered? Mabel, can you see any way through the crowd?"

Mabel rolled her hamster ball as close to the window as she could get and stared out at the horde now amassing outside the Mystery Shack. By now, they had disembarked from their stolen fleet of busses and were now lining up in organized ranks, blocking the road out and surrounding the building on almost all sides except for the Shack's rear… but with the sheer number of them, they'd probably be able to reach that in a matter of seconds. Even from here, there was no mistaking the fact that there were simply too many of them to fight their way through: there had to be at least two hundred Mabels out there, all of them dressed in freshly-stolen sweaters and skirts and all of them grinning fit to burst. None of them were armed with anything other than their bare hands, but then again, it wasn't as if they needed weapons – not when they had superhuman strength _and_ the ability to infect with a touch.

"None," she said at last.

"Okay then…" Stan floundered for a moment as he tried to think of a solution. "How badly do you think we'd hurt them if we were to just drive straight through the crowd?"

"I've seen them shrug off getting run over by a greyhound bus," Ford replied. "Also, I think they'd only use that as an opportunity to climb aboard. No, if we want to get through, we'll need a distraction."

"Well, is there anything they're afraid of? Any kind of damage they can't shrug off?"

"They don't much like fire. It's not necessary something they can't resist, but it scares them all the same - apparently due to their fungoid ancestry. Trouble is, they only react to fire in massive quantities: you'd need a flamethrower to get a proper fear response out of them, especially now that they're gathered into a horde – and by that, I mean a _real_ military-grade flamethrower, not an aerosol deodorant can and a lighter."

"Dang. I guess running across the lawn and trying to get them to follow me wouldn't work, huh?"

"Definitely."

"What if we pretend to use Dabel and Sabel as hostages?"

"_Wendy!"_

"I didn't say we'd actually _use_ them as hostages, dude, I said _'pretend." _I could get out a megaphone and start making threats while the rest of you get the car running."

"Audacious, but ineffectual against this kind of opponent," said Ford. "As long as they've got a big enough stable of replacements to support them, Forger Wasp Queens are notoriously cavalier about the lives of their drones. The army out there will definitely make the effort to get Dabel and Sabel out of the quarantine cells, but they won't lift a finger to ensure their safety. At this point, _we're_ the side that's actually in this to save lives… which unfortunately puts us at a bit of a disadvantage right now."

"What about me, then?" Mabel suggested.

All eyes turned in her direction.

"I mean, I'm the host for their Queen, right? I'm the only one they really want right now: maybe I could draw their attention, go rolling off and let you make a getaway while they're chasing me-"

"No," said Wendy.

"Heck no," concurred Stan.

"_Emphatically _no," Ford concluded. "And that makes it unanimous."

"But why? You said you needed a distraction! Besides, it's not as if they'll actually hurt me or anything like that."

There was an uncomfortable pause, broken only by the rumble of approaching footsteps.

"Right?"

"Let's just say that Forger Wasps are prepared to do _very_ nasty things to royal hosts who don't cooperate," said Ford darkly. "They value you very highly, but that doesn't mean they won't take measures to keep you secure - as long as those measures don't actually _kill _you. More specifically, they won't do anything that might endanger the Queen herself and they won't risk damaging your brain as long as the Forger Wasps continue to feed. Apart from that, the hive is ready, willing and able to do anything imaginable to keep royal hosts from escaping or rebelling. And that's _all_ I'm saying, okay? You do not need to know this, least of all now."

"Oh."

"Man alive," Stan grumbled. "If only I still had that black-market riot gear I was holding for Gustavo last spring. A water cannon would have been perfect for a time like this, even if these things can't be melted…"

Mabel hesitated. "Grunkle Stan," she asked quietly. "You wouldn't happen to have any illegal fireworks left in the house, would you?"

* * *

Thirty seconds later, the unearthly calm that had settled over the Mystery Shack's grounds was broken by the roar of a rocket whizzing over the heads of the Mabel army and erupting in a shower of sparks. The firework mightn't have been especially violent or even all that dangerous by Forger Wasp standards, but it was definitely enough to trigger the fear of fire: anyone within range of the explosion immediately scuttled out of the way with an earsplitting hiss, breaking ranks and reforming some distance away in a matter of seconds – but by then, another firework was already in motion.

Wendy stood upon the Mystery Shack's roof in a hazmat suit, firing off one rocket after another into the oncoming army; not a single flank of the horde remained safe from the barrage of fireworks, with even the furthest Mabels being bombarded with explosions and sparks, and only some hasty stomping from the distracted army prevented a fire from breaking out across the dry grass. Of course, Wendy wasn't actually aiming directly at any of the clones, but over their heads, enough to frighten them and shower them with sparks but hardly enough to harm them. After all, the plan wasn't to inflict any serious damage on the advancing horde – not while the possibility of a cure was still in reach.

Instead, while Wendy drew in the army's attention and kept them too distracted to flank the Shack, Stan, Ford and Mabel loaded the car as quickly as possible, spurred along by commentary from their set of walkie-talkies. So far, the plan was for Wendy to climb over to the other side of the roof and slide down to join them… but first they had to get the car ready first.

It wasn't easy: there was barely enough space to fit the equipment, Waddles kept getting curious about the smell of so many Mabels approaching, and Mabel's hamster ball hadn't been built for the back seat of a car. Plus, after almost forty years on the road, the Stanmobile was only _just_ functional. Somehow, though, they managed to get the creaking jalopy loaded in just under two minutes – long before Wendy ran out of fireworks.

However, just as Grunkle Stan had turned the key, the walkie-talkie crackled to life again.

"Mr Pines, they're heading in your direction!" Wendy yelled.

"I thought you said you had them under control!"

"I did! They were all swarming in on me, then they just changed their minds: they're all gunning straight for you!"

"Then use more fireworks!"

"I've tried that! They're ignoring them, you guys: every time I fire a rocket, they just swarm out of the way and keep going! It's like they know what we're trying to do!"

"Okay, nothing for it: get out of there, Wendy! The Stanmobile's ready to go!"

"You're not gonna make it: they'll swamp the car! I'll see if I can get their attention close up!"

"Wendy, NO!"

And it was at that point that, with Grunkle Stan screaming into the walkie-talkie, Grunkle Ford readying his stun baton and Wendy insisting that she'd be okay, that Mabel took action.

With her hamster ball wedged into the back seat of the car, it took two almighty lunges before she could get it free of the door; by the time Stan and Ford realized what she was doing, it was too late to stop her: the hamster ball shot out through the left-hand door like a cannonball and bounced onto the grass. Grunkle Stan opened his own door and made a grab in her direction, but Mabel was once again too quick for him. Sprinting against the walls of the ball, she sent it careening across the yard as fast as her feet could carry her, rumbling towards the front of the Shack like a runaway boulder escaped from an adventure movie.

"GET THE CAR MOVING!" she shouted over her shoulder, before charging onwards.

Ahead of her, the horde of Mabels loomed horrifically from around the corner, perfectly-identical smiles gleaming in the afternoon sun. She was well aware that this might not have been the brightest move she'd made in her life, but right now, she couldn't care less: now, with the trees and blurring past her and the awesome power of the hamster ball's forward momentum behind her, she felt invincible.

A hundred pairs of hands reached out to grab her, fingers clawing at the hamster ball like talons, but none of them stayed for long: perfectly smooth, without any edges or corners that the crowd could grip, the hamster ball was impossible for them to get a grip on. Even with their strength, the Mabels could only manage to get a split-second handhold on its surface before sliding away; and with no way of slowing it down, there was no way of overtaking it, opening, or stopping it from ploughing into them. With an almighty crash and a chorus of surprised yelps, the hamster ball slammed into the bulk of the oncoming army, toppling clones left and right like ninepins, and Mabel swore she could actually hear the clatter of a balling ball striking home as she collided with them.

Sprinting onwards, she cut a vast swathe through the ranks of the horde, knocking them down and rolling over them by the dozen. As long as she kept moving, it didn't matter what terrain she was on: she couldn't be stopped – as long as she kept going as fast as she could.

With the path cleared, the Stanmobile roared out from behind the Shack pausing in front of the building just in time for Wendy to take a flying leap off the roof: despite the hazmat suit, she managed to land on a roll and keep on running, opening the right side door and flinging herself inside just as the nearest ranks of clones started clawing their way upright.

"GREAT WORK, MABEL!" she bellowed. "NOW GET IN!"

This was going to be the tricky part, of course.

Charging straight for the Stanmobile, Mabel took the hamster ball in as close as she could – just close enough for Wendy to awkwardly scoop her up and drag both her and the ball into the car. It took their combined strength to squeeze the hamster ball past the seats, and even more just to get the car door to close – to the point that Ford had to frantically wave his stun baton out the window just so the clones didn't get close enough to play tug-of-war.

But after eight nerve-rending seconds, the hamster ball thundered into place and door slammed shut, and the car began speeding away from the Shack, a couple of dozen hands futilely snatching at their rear bumper as they fled.

"That was fun," Mabel panted.

"Absolutely," agreed Wendy.

"Hear hear," said Ford.

"Yeah," concluded Stan. "Now let's never do it again."

And with that, the Stanmobile rocketed away as fast as its balding tyres could carry it.

As they rounded the corner, Mabel craned her neck for one final glimpse of the Mystery Shack and immediately regretted it: the sight was instantly branded on her brain, every horrendous detail scorched into permanency, guaranteed to return to her no matter how many times she tried to scour the memory away and replace it with something happier. Even the Memory Gun wouldn't be enough to get this out of her head.

There, plainly visible through the rear window of the car, the Mystery Shack was alive with activity. It was _covered _in hundreds of clones, swarming up the walls and layering the roof like ants attacking a carcass; for good measure, she could clearly see that several dozen of them were leaping off and joining the mob currently pursuing the car, but a hundred more were making their way inside, tearing doors off their hinges and forcing their way past the crude barricades as they did so. If Mabel had to guess at why, they were probably on their way to release Dabel and Sabel from captivity… but that wouldn't explain the sheer number of people flocking through the doors. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more it looked like they were claiming the Shack as a new base.

Mabel had seen the Mystery Shack in bad condition before; in fact, "bad condition" was its default state. Over the summer, she'd seen it vandalized, wrecked, and in one case almost ruined in the aftermath of Bill's death. Up until now, she thought that the sight of the Shack under Gideon's management had gotten the closest to breaking her heart, partly because Gideon had been doing his level best to bastardize everything that was good about Grunkle Stan's simple, unpretentious tourist trap, but mostly because it was a sign of just how defeated the four of them had been by that point in the summer. This… this was something different: Gideon had at least been human, with human reasons for doing what he did – horrible, selfish, megalomaniacal reasons, but human reasons nonetheless.

This takeover looked horrifically animal, as if the Shack was being claimed by wild animals before her eyes; the more she looked at it, the more it felt like the building was being hollowed out and transformed into a hive for some terrible swarm of insects…

…except all of those insects, from the invaders to the pursuers, _had her face._

Worst of all were the outliers, those who weren't claiming the Mystery Shack or chasing after the car: they just stood and watched the Stanmobile go, some of them perched on the roof, some sitting on the porch, a few just standing in the middle of the grounds. Even from here, Mabel could see that terrible expression of self-assuredness on their faces, the look that seemed to say, "You'll be back. You can't run forever. One way or another, you'll be back."

And all of them…

Were…

_Smiling._

Then the car rounded the bend, and all Mabel could see was the forest rising around the windows of the car and the road winding away behind them.

* * *

For several seconds, the Stanmobile's interior was almost completely silent except for the rumble of the engine, the faint buzz of Wendy's phone, and the four of them struggling to get their collective breaths back.

Stan was the first to break the silence. "Okay," he panted. "Where to next, Ford?"

"Well, if I'm right about what Fiddleford would be up to on a day like today, we should head for-"

"Hang on just a sec!" Mabel interrupted. "Before you say anything, there's one more thing I'd like to know about these Forger Wasp things."

"What is it?"

There was a pause, as Mabel plucked up her courage and voiced the question that had been hovering on the tip of her tongue ever since she'd seen the swarm of Mabels change course. "Grunkle Ford," she began, a tone of dawning horror in her voice, "how did they know where the car was parked? I only found out at the same time you did."

"Like I said, Mabel, the Queen has access to your memories. That's how her drones copy your personality, don't forget."

"Well, can the Queen read my mind? I mean, am I connected up to this hive mind thing as well? Is that how they knew how to cut off our escape?"

"Absolutely not," Ford reassured her. "She might be able to read your memories, but only those that have been committed to long term memory long enough for her tendrils to cleanly read them – five to ten minutes at the most. She can't access your thoughts and she can't see through your eyes, so we have that much on our side at least."

Somewhere in the back of Mabel's head, the stress she'd been bottling up over the course of the last hour or so (kept simmering just below the boiling point by a mixture of the hamster ball and surface tension) abruptly overflowed. _"But she can read my memories!" _she exploded. "Why are you even talking to me right now?!"

"Calculated risk: the clones will take advantage of any kind of confusion, no matter how minor, and that includes me playing the 'Trust Nobody' card again. As long as we don't discuss things like possible vectors for distributing the cure, we'll be fine."

"Plus," said Stan cheerily, "You'd be amazed at just how far the Stanmobile can go in five minutes. Give us half that time, and we'll be safe at-"

"NO!" Mabel yelled. "NO, DO NOT SAY ANYTHING! THIS IS OFFICIALLY A NO-PLAN ZONE! I DON'T WANNA KNOW WHERE WE'RE GOING."

"I'm just saying it's not going to matter if-"

Mabel clamped her hands over her ears, shut her eyes as tightly as possible, and began reciting the traditional childhood mantra for warding off unwanted conversation: "I'M NOT LISTENING, I'M NOT LISTENING, LA LA LA, YOU CAN SAY WHATEVER YOU LIKE, BUT I WON'T HEAR IT, BECAUSE I'M NOT LISTENNG TO IT, LA LA LA LA…"

"Mabel-"

"LA LA LA LA NOT LISTENING LA LA LA LA…"

Ford smiled. "I meant it when I said I was proud of you, Mabel. Just thought you should know that."

"LA LA STILL NOT LISTENING LA LA…"

But even as she hollered on, Mabel couldn't quite hide the smile on her face.

* * *

A/N: Anyone care to guess what happens next?

This chapter's soundtrack is _My Favourite Plague _by Jerry Goldsmith.

And the code...

**Zoo blfi kozmh szev tlmv gl dzhgv**  
**Zmw mld blf'ev olhg blfi kivxrlfh yzhv**  
**Blf dlm'g hklro lfi vzigsob ufm**  
**Hl sld nfxs olmtvi xzm blf ifm?**


	11. The Baited Hook

A/N: Ow.

I appear to have incurred the wrath of the bad luck virus, ladies and gents. As a result, there may be slight delays on the promised chapters of All The World's A Toybox and The Land Of What Might Have Been due to my need to a) get my computer to cooperate, and b) wait for my bruises to heal. In the meantime, I'm very glad that I have chapters of this story stocked in advance.

Also, ow.

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls is not mine.

Ow.

* * *

After the Stanmobile had finally left the Mystery Shack behind, Mabel had fully expected the clones to give chase, to clamber back into their fleet of stolen vehicles and swarm after them. And when that hadn't happened, she'd found herself frantically scanning the road ahead for a trap of some kind: a spike strip across the road, or a tarpaulin over a pitfall, or maybe even something more elaborate with tripwires and nets strong enough to haul a car into the air. At the very least, she'd been waiting for an ambush.

But no: from the moment they'd left the forest behind and cruised swiftly downhill into Gravity Falls proper, they'd met no resistance whatsoever. No Mabel clones swarmed in from the sidelines, no crossbow bolts punctured their tyres, no stolen police cars slid into pursuit… in fact, there was no sign of the clones anywhere in town – or anyone else, for that matter.

The streets of Gravity Falls were completely deserted. More disturbingly, it was pretty obvious how they'd been taken, for the clones hadn't exactly been prompt in tidying up the mess they'd left in their wake: all along the residential streets, windows had been broken and doors had been left open, often ominously ajar; around smaller storefronts, security gates had been torn down so that the clones could get at the shopkeepers; cars had been left parked diagonally in the middle of the street, their windows smashed in and doors hanging off their hinges.

More than once, Mabel saw a discarded baby carriage torn apart – as if from the inside – and forced herself not to imagine what might have happened; it didn't work.

More than once, Mabel caught a brief glimpse of curiously-shaped grooves dug in wooden doors, weird tears ripped in car upholstery, and it wasn't until Grunkle Stan had told her to look away that she realized that these strange carvings were from _fingernails_: people had tried to cling to their front doors or hang on to their car seats as the clones had dragged them away for conversion, accidentally carving trails as they lost their grip.

The worst of all these disturbing little snapshots was found at the shopping mall: by the front door, a huge pile of discarded clothes had accumulated into a mountain of unwanted apparel, including everything from adult-sized jackets to tattered kid's pyjamas. Even Mabel couldn't help but imagine what had been going on here, especially when she'd seen the procession of tiny footprints marching past the mountain.

_They transform, they find their clothes don't fit anymore, so they go to the mall to steal some new clothes… and on the way out, they toss their old clothes on the pile. _

_And there's baby shoes here as well, so that's another image I didn't need in my head._

_ But it's there… and it's not going away. _

_It's _still_ not going away. _

_I'd like to stop imagining what happened, please…_

She forced herself to look away from the signs of the carnage, and did her best to remain on lookout for wandering clones. And when none were visible, she turned her attention to her fellow survivors… not that it made her feel any better, of course.

At the moment, the mood inside the car was decidedly grim: Gunkle Stan was hunched over the wheel, anxiously scanning the streets for any signs of an incoming attack; Grunkle Ford had busied himself with one of his more elaborate pieces of gadgetry, and was now absorbed in the process of pressing buttons and turning dials; Wendy was clutching the only weapon she'd been able to recover from the Mystery Shack – a shovel – and idly checking her phone for new text messages. The expression on her face looked about as bright and optimistic as the cover of Robbie's last album.

Not helping the mood was the pace of their journey: all four of them would have gladly rocketed through town without even thinking of the speed limit, but unfortunately, the number of abandoned cars and busses left on the road had forced them to slow down considerably as they went about finding alternate routes. As a result, everyone had more than enough time to get a good look at the nightmare the Mabels had left in their wake… or imagine what might happen if they found themselves at a dead end.

* * *

Eventually, Mabel couldn't stand the silence a moment longer.

"Where do you think they all ran off to?" she whispered.

"Probably coordinating an ambush," Ford replied. "Remember, they communicate by hive mind, so any clones left in town will already know that the army sent to the Mystery Shack didn't capture us… so they're either up ahead somewhere, or they're right behind us."

There was an uncomfortable pause.

"You sure I don't need to be blindfolded? I mean, if they're reading my memories-"

"We'll be fine, Mabel: as long as we stay ahead of the memory upload, there's nothing to worry about. There's no need for blindfolds."

"I'm just saying, if we really need to use them, I'm okay with that. I mean, it wouldn't be the first time I've been blindfolded in the back of this car."

"…what.'

In spite of himself, Grunkle Stan actually managed a snort of laughter. "It's a long story, Pointdexter. But I'm with Ford on this one: you're not gonna need a blindfold, Mabel. I mean, we'd have to stop the car and get you out of the hamster ball first, and then you'd be neck-deep in it if we ever had to run in a hurry. Besides, we're not headed for the lake this time around."

"Where _are _we headed, then?" Mabel asked, and immediately realized her mistake. "No, no, _don't tell me!_ Whatever it is, _do not tell me. _I do not need to know."

"Lighten up, pumpkin. We'll be there inside five minutes, and as long as we keep moving, it won't matter whether they know or… uh-oh."

There was a pause, as the Stanmobile slowly ground to a halt. Peering past Grunkle Stan's seat and through the windshield, Mabel saw that a large bus had been left abandoned in the middle of the road ahead, blocking all but a miniscule strip of sidewalk just wide enough to fit a car through. Worse still, this street wasn't residential: there were no lawns, only solid brick walls and chain-link fences; if the Stanmobile couldn't make it through the gap, it'd get wedged between the bus and the wall… and that was assuming that they didn't get ambushed trying to squeeze through the alley.

"You think you can make it?" Wendy asked.

"The Stanmobile's made tighter escapes that this," said Grunkle Stan with a wink. "I once got the old girl onto a moving service elevator in a five-star hotel, and managed to get all the way through an eighth-story corridor before riding it out through a window."

A stunned silence followed.

"Anyway, that's the _other_ reason why I was banned from Florida."

Grunkle Ford coughed. "Putting aside the fact that I distinctly remember you telling me that happened in _Chicago_-"

"It _did!_ And it led to me getting banned from Florida."

"_How?"_

"I had a stolen alligator in the trunk. I know it sounds weird, but that is actually and factually what happened."

"…putting aside the fact that I'm very happy your memory's recovered enough for you to recall that, I'm not sure if the car will be able to make this journey without getting stuck. Frankly, I'm not sure how this car is still running after forty years of _barely _intermittent maintenance. I mean, is it absolutely necessary for us to take this route?"

"It's either this way or backtrack for a couple of miles and risk getting caught. I mean, we could try driving through backyards and punching through fences, but I've tried that before, and it doesn't always go well."

"Alright, alright, point taken."

Slowly, Grunkle Stan began wheeling the Stanmobile into position, leaving it virtually sideways across the road as they took aim at the gap.

"Now, assuming we approach from an angle of-"

Wendy's phone dinged loudly.

"…or we could put that on mute," Ford grumbled testily. "That is an option for those things, right?"

Silence was his only reply. A quick glance in Wendy's direction revealed that she was now staring catatonically down at her phone, an expression of blank-faced horror frozen on her face.

"Wendy?" Mabel whispered. "Are you okay?"

Without saying a word, Wendy held up her phone for inspection, and as one, the three of them leaned forward to see what had shocked her (Mabel with some difficulty, given that her hamster ball was still wedged into place).

There, on the screen was a photo of Grenda and Candy, both of them bound, gagged and manacled to the Grendinator family couch; both were pale, sweating, and clearly terrified; judging by the chains around Grenda, she'd tried to fight back at some point, and her captors weren't taking any chances in keeping her under wraps. As if to make sure there could be no doubt about who the hostage-takers were, one of the Mabels was standing alongside the couch and making bunny ears behind Grenda's head.

Below the photo was a text from Tambry – or at least, from Tambry's phone. DON'T WORRY, it declared. THEY'LL BE MUCH HAPPIER IN A COUPLE OF MINUTES, LMAO ;)

For a moment, there was deathly silence inside the Stanmobile, broken only by the sound of Waddles oinking in concern.

"Turn this car around," said Mabel at last.

"What?"

"We have to rescue Grenda and Candy!"

"But-"

"Why are we even talking about this? Two of our friends are in danger, and _they need our help!" _

Mabel looked around for support, and realized that everyone in the car was wearing the same despairing look. "What?" she demanded. "_What?_ Have we just forgotten about Grenda and Candy all of a sudden? You know – my best friends, our biggest allies outside the Mystery Shack, the Shacktron gunners? Remember them? We wouldn't have made it into the Fearamid within them! You wouldn't have been freed without them, Grunkle Ford!"

Grunkle Ford groaned wearily. "I know, Mabel, I know, but…" He closed his eyes and massaged his temples. "God help me, how can I make this sound less heartless?" he asked nobody in particular.

"It's a trap, Mabel," said Wendy. "They're using Grenda and Candy as bait. That house is probably crawling with Mabel clones, and the moment we show up, they're gonna be all over us like ants on doggy doo. I mean, they're probably already converting the two of them already. Actually, I'll bet they started as soon as the photo was sent."

"_Thank you,"_ Ford sighed.

"Not a problem, dude."

"But we can still save them!" Mabel exploded. "It's not too late: we can give them the serum, keep them stable for the rest of their lives – you said that could work!"

"Yes, but it's not going to do any good if they're already fully converted."

"You don't _know_ they're fully converted! Maybe we can still save them if we get there in the next couple of minutes: they don't know I've seen the photo, so maybe we can catch them off guard."

"And in the meantime, we've still got a few hundred clones waiting for us to make the wrong move. I'm sorry, Mabel, but we have to focus on the big picture for now: the sooner we get to safety, the sooner we can come up with a cure and save _everyone_. Even if we could rescue Grenda and Candy – even if we could save everyone who hasn't been infested yet – it won't matter if we can't get to safety and create a cure." Ford took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, I really am, but there's nothing we can do for your friends."

"Wendy, you can't be thinking of agreeing with this."

She at least had the decency to look ashamed. "They're my friends too, Mabel, but… like Ford said, if we can't build a cure, then there's no point: it's the apocalypse."

In desperation, Mabel looked to the driver's seat: "You know we can get there in time, Grunkle Stan! Back me up on this!"

But even Stan looked uncertain. "I'm sorry, pumpkin," he said haltingly, "but it's not looking good. I mean, like Wendy said, it's obviously a trap. And maybe they'll both be Mabel clones by the time we get there: even if we wanted to keep them captive like Dabel and Sabel, we wouldn't be able to tell them apart from the others. I hate to say it… but maybe Ford's right: we'd be doing a lot more for them by making the cure."

For the next few seconds, there was silence except for a faint rumbling in the distance. Inside the hamster ball, Mabel sagged.

If nothing else, Ford at least looked contrite. "Mabel, I'm sorry," he began, "but-"

"You don't even know if you'll ever get this cure to work!" Mabel wailed.

"I know it's possible, I've seen it happen-"

"_Where?_ In some dimension where you happened to make a friend? I mean, was this guy successful before or after you started liking him?"

"What are you insinuating?"

The rumbling was louder now.

"Guys, could we just stop fighting for a minute?" Wendy sighed exasperatedly. "This really isn't the time."

"I'm not insinuating anything! I'm saying we're pinning all our hopes on something that might not even work!"

"Mabel, you need to think this through-"

"I have!"

"No you haven't!"

"Have!"

"Haven't!"

"Would the two of you _please_ cut it out?" Grunkle Stan yelled. "Ford, you are close to sixty years old; act your age! And Mabel, could you just take a deep breath and-"

There was a loud ding from Wendy's phone.

"Oh _what now?"_ Stan grumbled.

"It's another text from Tambry. It's says…" Wendy's eyes narrowed. "Oooooh crap," she muttered.

"What, what's wrong?"

The rumbling sounded again, this time much closer and accompanied by several distinctly terrified-sounding oinks from Waddles. As she turned to look in its direction, Wendy dropped her phone on the seat next to Mabel, allowing her to get a good look at the offending message.

THANKS FOR STOPPING THE CAR, it read.

Mabel looked up just in time to see a giant SUV roaring down the road towards them, a quintet of clones grinning at her from behind the wheel, right before it slammed headlong into the Stanmobile. Struck hard in the driver-side door, the car lurched violently across the road as the oncoming hummer ploughed into it, sending chunks of metal and broken glass showering across the road as it spun out of control.

Because the hamster ball prevented her from wearing a seatbelt, Mabel went _flying, _bouncing around the inside of the Stanmobile like a pinball trapped in a tumble-dryer and richocheting off every available surface – including people. For the next few seconds, her entire world was a dazzling kaleidoscope of blurred faces and seats and dashboards and windows and floors, hammering down on her from all angles. All around her, screams, shouts, swear-words, the crunch of metal on metal, the screech of tyres and the earsplitting giggle of the Mabels fused into one single, sickening cacophony. It took every last drop of willpower not to vomit or pass out, if only because doing either inside the hamster ball would have been an open invitation to spend the rest of the day washing puke out of her hair, but eventually, the car skidded to a halt some distance from the bus.

Having landed squarely in Wendy's lap, Mabel could only lie there for a moment, dazed and giddy from the spinning. Then, she heard the laughter from outside; suddenly wide awake, she saw that Mabels were pouring out of the now-parked SUV and marching straight towards them… and a quick glance at the road behind them revealed more cars rumbling into position behind the hummer, blocking the exit and disgorging even more clones.

Frantic, she looked around in the hopes that the others were reacting faster than she was – and yes, thank goodness, Wendy had her shovel at the ready and Grunkle Ford was already charging his stun baton. But then her gaze turned to the driver's seat, and with a thrill of horror, Mabel realized that Grunkle Stan was slumped unconscious over the steering wheel, his helmet cracked open in the impact.

"Grunkle Stan!"

The only reply was a disoriented groan.

"_Grunkle Stan!"_

"He'll be okay," Ford panted, as he hastily checked for signs of cranial trauma. "I think he just bumped his head against the ceiling, and he doesn't appear to be concussed. I man, it could be worse. They could have caved in the entire driver's compartment if they'd been driving any faster. Give him a couple of seconds to come around, and he'll be fine."

"We don't _have_ a couple of seconds, dude!" shouted Wendy. "We need him awake and driving, NOW!"

Grunkle Ford sighed, leaned over and gently slapped Stan across the face.

"Urrrrgh."

"Come on, Stanley, _wake up…"_

"Ow…"

"Yes, I know your head hurts, Stanley, but if you don't wake up and get this car moving, we're as good as dead!"

"Aaaargh isssnotevenaschoolday."

Ford hit him again. "COME ON!"

Grunkle Stan's eyes creaked open a tiny crack. "Is it time for the algebra quiz?" he mumbled. "Can I copy off you, Sixer?"

"Oh for god's sake," Ford sighed. "Wendy, help me get him into the back seat! I'll drive."

And then the first of the clones leapt at the car, crashing feet-first through the cracked window and grabbing Grunkle Stan by the collar; Grunkle Ford tried to swat her away with the stun baton, but the clone was too quick for him, darting onto the dashboard so swiftly that he ended up zapping Stan instead. Wendy swung the shovel in an awkward arc, managing to knock the clone off the dashboard – and right back onto Stan, who naturally ended up accidentally getting jabbed with the stun baton again as Ford struggled to force the cackling doppelganger out the window.

On the third jolt, Grunkle Stan jerked upright. "Alright!" he yowled. "I'm awake! I'm awake! I'm OH GOD GET HER OFF ME GET HER OFF ME OH GOD OH JESUS!"

Wendy obligingly swung the shovel again, flicking the clone back out the window – and accidentally hitting Stan in the ear with the shaft as she did so.

"OW! WOULD YOU _PLEASE_ STOP WITH THE FRIENDLY FIRE!?" Grunkle Stan wailed.

"_Shut up and drive!" _Wendy roared.

"Ow, ow, okay, okay… just need to find my feet, and we'll be underway-"

But no sooner had he put his foot to the pedal, the rest of the SUV's passengers surged in: gang of at least ten Mabels charging the Stanmobile from the left flank, with at least thirty more pouring in from the other cars. Tearing off the driver's-side door with one almighty wrench, they surged in on the passengers, the nearest of them trying to rip Grunkle Stan out of his seat, and the rest clambering over him to attack the other passengers. Wendy and Grunkle Ford tried to fight them off as best as they could, and even Waddles made a spirited attempt at headbutting their hands away, but with no room for them to manoeuvre, they could only _just_ hold the oncoming horde at bay. Stan had more room to fight with the door open, and was able to fling several of the clones aside before they could get a grip on his helmet or gloves, but for every one of them that had been thrown out five more charged in from the sidelines to replace them. Mabel herself, unable to get a good run-up from the back seat and unable to get out of the hamster ball without infecting Wendy and the others, could only watch helplessly as the army closed in on them.

And then, just as Mabel thought it was all over, just as she thought that this could only end in capture, Grunkle Stan played the only card he had left: suddenly eerily calm, he reached out and unbuckled his seatbelt.

"_NO!"_ Mabel shrieked. Suddenly blind to the danger, she threw herself forward, trying to get close enough to leap out of her hamster ball and grab him – but too late, too far. She couldn't even get past the gap between the passenger seats and the row ahead.

Meanwhile, Grunkle Ford lunged over in a desperate attempt to buckle Stan back in, to grab him before it was too late, but the clones had already seized the advantage: grabbing Grunkle Stan by his legs, the clones began hauling him out of the car, tearing off his ruined helmet so they could easily convert him. Only his grip on the edge of the seat kept him from landing flat on his face in the middle of the street… and that wouldn't hold for long, not with the clones swarming up to tear his hands loose.

And as they did so, Grunkle Stan looked up at Ford and shouted, "What are you waiting for, an invitation?"

"But-"

"Just go, Ford! It's up to you now!"

Then, he let go.

For a split-second, Grunkle Ford's face shifted wildly between disbelief and horror as he watched Stan tumbling into the waiting arms of the Mabel clones. Then, nodding silently, he flung himself into the driver's seat and put pedal to metal.

Mabel, screaming in disbelief, had just enough time to roll over to the rear window before the Stanmobile accelerated away, rocketing away through the alleyway with an earsplitting screech of metal on metal – until at last, they were through and soaring down the street. The last she saw of Grunkle Stan, he was staring up at her from the road with several dozen clones swarming over him, bare hands reaching out to draw him into their ranks. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but it almost looked as though he was smiling, as if trying to reassure her.

Then he was gone.

"_What are you DOING?!" _Mabel howled. "We can't just leave him!"

"We have to," said Ford, quietly. "It's what he wanted."

"But-"

"You saw what he did, Mabel: he let them take him. He was buying time for us to escape. Now we have to make his sacrifice mean something."

"And that's supposed to make everything better, is it?"

"No, it's not. It's just the facts: we have a week before they're past the point of no-return, Mabel. If we can make the cure before time runs out, we can save them all: no losses, no deaths, everybody lives. That's why Stan did that for us; that's why we have to keep moving."

Mabel looked up at Wendy, hoping that she'd find at least some support from her; instead, Wendy's face was still locked in the same expression of grim acceptance. A good look at her eyes confirmed that wasn't even remotely happy at what had happened so far, but she was keeping everything buttoned down for the sake of the mission.

It took all of Mabel's willpower not to let the tears show in that moment: she hadn't just lost the argument – if you could even call it that – she'd just seen herself inching closer to losing everyone. No matter how many times Ford had told her a cure was within reach, they were no closer to any real kind of victory. They hadn't figured out how the Forger Wasps had gotten in, they had barely managed to replicate a few extra vials of suppressant, they hadn't been able to keep Sable and Dable jailed, and apart from that, they'd spent most of the day doing nothing but losing: they'd lost Dipper, they'd lost Soos, they'd lost the Mystery Shack, and now they'd lost Grunkle Stan. There were only three of them left, now, and one of them was already infested. How long before three became two?

How long before they lost _everyone?_

How long before Mabel was alone in the world?

Back in the driver's seat, Ford's stone-faced expression softened. "I'm sorry, Mabel, but this is just how it has to be: I know it isn't fair, but… we'll find a way to make it right, I promise."

Mabel wanted to leave it at that: she wanted to clam up and leave everything she wanted to say unspoken, if only to spare her from losing all composure and revealing just how upset she really was.

But in that moment, Mabel wasn't really sad: she was angry – angrier than she'd ever been in her entire life. She was angry that she was once again neck-deep in another end-of-the-world scenario when Weirdmageddon should have been the end of it. She was angry that the threat of losing Dipper was once again looming, but this time she wouldn't even get a chance to say goodbye. She was angry at the Forge-Wasps, at the clones they'd created. She was angry at Grunkle Stan for sacrificing himself. She was angry at Wendy for letting it happen. She was angry at Grunkle Ford for trying to tell her that everything would be okay if they just looked at the big picture.

Most of all, she was angry at herself.

She'd taken the bait, she'd helped Dabel spread the plague, she'd swallowed every lie the clone had served up, and she'd gotten Dipper infested in the first place. And beyond that, Weirdmageddon was still on her conscience, along with all the petty, selfish things she hated about herself but couldn't be rid of.

And anger was a lot harder to hold back than tears.

So, before she could stop herself, Mabel found herself saying, "No, you're not."

"Excuse me?"

"You're not sorry at all. You're over the moon about the fact that your 'lone-hero-seeing-the-big-picture schtick' has finally paid off for the first time in your entire life."

"Mabel-"

But Mabel wasn't listening: something very unpleasant lurking the back of her head was pushing buttons and pressing override switches and demanding that she finally let all the bottled-up frustrations explode outwards, insisting that Ford be made just as miserable as he'd made her for the last few weeks without even meaning to.

"It's a pity I didn't believe in your idea of the bigger picture back when the portal was first opened, you know that?" she snarled. "If I'd listened to Dipper and pressed the button, I'd never have met you, _Dipper_ would never have met you, Grunkle Stan would never have to figure out what a jerk you are, Weirdmageddon would never have happened, and everyone in this family would be a lot happier without you!"

A quick glance in Ford's direction revealed that his expression had given way to a look of shock and hurt, as if Mabel had reached out and slapped him hard across the face. And yet, it didn't make Mabel feel any better, nor did it make her feel as though she'd achieved some kind of victory over anyone. In that moment, she wished she could take back everything she'd just said. Right then and there, she only felt sick to her stomach.

What _had_ she been thinking? She'd seen the look on Grunkle Ford's face when Stan had unbucked his seatbelt; she'd _seen _that his first instinct had been to try and save him… and yet she'd turned around and done her best to hurt him, for no other reason than to make him feel as unhappy as she was! What was _wrong_ with her?

Worse still, she couldn't even bring herself to apologise: every time she tried to say sorry, her throat tightened until it felt as though every muscle in her neck was tightening into a noose.

In the end, she could only hide her face in her hands, and tried not to think that Dipper, Soos and Grunkle Stan were already dead…

* * *

Some distance away, the Grey Professional grinned behind his scarf.

He'd been following the Stanmobile from the moment it had left the Mystery Shack, and had been able to capture the entire incident on holotape. Already, the footage of Mabel's emotional meltdown had been sent to the client, and judging by the additional payments being made to his account, the reception was very positive indeed.

Had he been in any way curious, he might have wondered who this mysterious Mr Yard was and why he seemed to be so determined to watch Mabel being emotionally tortured. But the Grey Professional wasn't a curious man: he felt no need to pursue mysteries, for he knew that the only questions worth asking would be answered at the very end of his mission. Then, all parties concerned could unmask and gloat.

And after all the trouble he'd gone to just to acquire a Forger Wasp Queen, it would be a gloat well-deserved.

Of course, judging from the client's disposition, something told him it would be a well-deserved gloat for Mr Yard as well.

For now, though, he would pursue the client and ensure that everything went according to plan. It was almost adorable, the way they tried to be coy about their next port of call when their itinerary was so very obvious.

If anyone noticed him floating across the darkening horizon, nobody would have thought it especially unusual: he would have appeared as nothing more than a wisp of cloud drifting across the late afternoon skies.

Except this particular cloud was travelling against the wind… and it was heading straight for Northwest Manor.

* * *

A/N: Any idea who the mysterious Mr Yard might be? Any theories on what might happen next? Feel free to let me know!

The soundtrack for this chapter is **The Search For Jim, **by John Murphy.

And now for the code:

**Olhg z uirvmw? Dv'ev nliv gl hkziv**  
**Zmw drgs blf dv'oo yv tozw gl hsziv**  
**Blfi xlnizwvh hllm droo qlrm gsv srev**  
**Gsvri nrmwh wlm'g szev olmt gl hfierev…**


	12. Seeking Shelter From The Storm

A/N: Hello again, ladies and gentlemen! Latest chapter of All The World's A Toybox will be along very soon, so in the meantime, it's time to see how much happiness and darkness we can squeeze out of a jolly little tale about a zombie apocalypse - if the zombies were replaced by clones of Mabel, of course.

A hearty thanks to all my viewers, reviewers, followers and favouriters, in the meantime. Feel free to keep puzzling new theories and predicting what might happen next - that's one of the many things that puts a smile on my face and gets my heart started on cold winter mornings!

Anyway, without further ado, the newest instalment: read, review, and above all, enjoy!

* * *

"State your business."

"This is Stanford Pines, here to see Fiddleford McGucket."

"Mr McGucket is a _guest_ at present, sir. What business do you have with the owners of this house?"

"As I understand it, _Fiddleford_ is going to be the owner of this house soon, owing to the fact that your boss is broke and in dire need of asset liquidation."

"The Northwest family is not open to discussing their financial situation. State your business or leave."

"Look, in case nobody in this overdefended Versailles has happened to watch the news at any point in the last few hours, Gravity Falls has been overwhelmed by a horde of rampaging parasitoid clone-monsters monsters and most of its populace have been converted into additional clones. At present, we are the only survivors, and we are currently in desperate need of shelter."

"Assuming any of this is true, Mr Northwest does not feel this is his problem."

"Oh yes, the Northwest family's notoriously stunted sense of compassion. And here I was thinking that what I'd heard about your last annual party was just a one-off. Alright then, allow me to make this abundantly clear for the self-righteous gap-toothed slavedriver doubtlessly listening to this conversation: Fiddledford and I are the best possible chance of creating a cure for conversion, and if you decide that you'd rather trust in high walls and expensive security systems rather than the two of us, you are – at best – only delaying the inevitable. The clones will continue multiplying and continue assimilating knowledge from around the area, and sooner or later, they'll find a way in. Maybe they'll skydive in; maybe they'll tunnel into the basements; maybe they'll cut power to your mansion and wipe out any backup generators with an electromagnetic pulse… or maybe they'll just gather in the millions and swarm over your walls like a tsunami. Am I giving you an accurate picture of what's going to happen, or do I have to simplify things just so the chinless idiot peering over your shoulder gets the picture?"

As one, Wendy and Mabel edged away from Ford.

Somehow, they'd made it through the now-deserted Gravity Falls without running into any further ambushes or seeing any other Mabels, and without losing anything else from the Stanmobile, but it had been a very tense few minutes of driving. For one thing, Grunkle Ford had given up on little things like speed limits and safe driving in favour of speeding though the deserted streets as fast as the Stanmobile's tired old engine could travel, swerving violently around corners, braking violently enough to bounce Mabel's hamster ball against the back of Wendy's chair, and weaving about abandoned cars like a maniac.

For another thing, Ford had been _terrifyingly _silent throughout the journey, not responding to a single question from Wendy no matter how urgently she called for his attention. It evidently wasn't out of rage at what had happened so far, for he hadn't seemed angry or even mildly annoyed at any point; if anything, his face was frozen in the same shocked, wounded look it had assumed after Mabel had shouted at him. And with the speeding, the reckless driving and the complete lack of reaction to the wind rushing in through the now-permanently opened door, the expression only made him look about five steps removed from a nervous breakdown.

Mabel had spent most of the last few minutes looking on with a mixture of guilt and depression. It was pretty clear that Grunkle Stan's capture was weighing heavily on Ford, and the tirade she'd thrown in his lap hadn't helped. She'd wanted desperately to apologise to him, but she couldn't think of what she could say to make things right; even if they hadn't been traveling at over two hundred miles an hour along an extremely windy road with abandoned cars littering the median strip and eagle-eyed Mabel clones on patrol, she probably wouldn't have been able to think of anything.

What she'd said after the ambush hadn't just been childish and mean-spirited: it had been crossing the line material. She'd dreamed of saying something like this to Ford back when she'd found out about the apprenticeship he'd offered Dipper, actually fantasized about all the things she'd like to scream in his face, but she'd never gone through with it: when the time came, she'd been too sad and lonely and frightened to summon up a ghost of the anger she'd felt, and besides, she hadn't wanted a confrontation – not really. Most of her arguments with family members had only left her feeling sick to her stomach and so choked with emotion she could barely breathe, and she'd known that an argument with Ford would be no exception. So instead, she'd avoided a confrontation – with Ford, with the future, with everything – and fled into the woods… where Bill had been waiting for her. And now, after all the horrible mistakes she'd made, after finally coming to terms with the future and learning a lesson in maturity, she'd only flown off the handle and done something even nastier than before.

Now, standing outside the imposing gates of Northwest Manor with the butler's voice waffling at them through the tiny speaker set into the right-hand column, Ford seemed even worse: right now he looked as though he was about to start foaming at the mouth.

"For god's sake, is anyone _listening _to me in there?" he bellowed. "This is an extinction-level cataclysm we're currently facing, and at the risk of puncturing that overinflated ego of yours, Preston, the extinction of the human race _includes you!_ Do I need subtitles or something? Does 'human go bye-bye mean Preston go bye-bye' sound simplistic enough for you, or do I have to resort to the Ladybird Book of Existential Threats? I mean, it has pictures, but you're gonna have to let me in if you want to look at them!"

In the awkward pause that followed, there was a muttering from the loudspeaker as the butler and Preston Northwest began quietly hashing out what to do with their newest visitors. Most of it was inaudible, but at one point, the words 'six-fingered snoop' and 'should have let the hounds maul him' floated into earshot.

"Well," Ford grumbled. "He definitely remembers me. Obviously, he's still bitter over that time I started sticking my nose into his secrets… and everything else that's happened since then. Apparently the fact that we saved his bacon during Weirdmageddon isn't enough for him to let bygones be bygones."

Just as Mabel was beginning to despair, there was a great commotion from the other end of the speaker - the sound of bare feet slapping against marble floors at high speed, followed the sound of someone being thumped in the stomach with a banjo.

Then, a twangy Appalachian voice shrieked, "Git outta there, you ungrateful hornswogglin' dadgum sawdust-covered varmints! Git away from my speaker – unless ya wanna live in bankruptcy! Go on, git! Make yourselves useful and set up them gun turrets… and find a better dentist while you're at it!"

Then, as the sounds of patrician complaining receded into the distance, Old Man McGucket hollered through the speaker: "Ford! You okay out there?"

At long last, Ford smiled. "We've seen better days, but we're still alive. How are things on your end, Fiddleford?"

"I've been tryin' to get this here mansion into fightin' shape so's we can fight of all these clones when they finally come knockin', but Mr Fancy Britches keeps insistin' on not wreckin' the paintjob! He's already kicked up such a fuss about the damage to the lawn he's threatenin' to sue, if you can believe it. Dadgum idiot doesn't seem to get the fact that he doesn't even have the money to pay for a lawyer, which was why he was gonna sell me the place anyway."

"So you've seen what's going on outside?"

"Hard not to, what with the TV in here! You can see dust particles on the news anchor's eyelashes, I swear. I'm guessin' you're thinkin' of a cure for all this clone business?"

"You'd be guessing right. You wouldn't happen to have a working laboratory in there, would you?"

McGucket cackled maniacally. "That was one o' the first things I went lookin' for when we got the news! Turns out there's a whole fifty feet of the garages here that Ol' Northwest wasn't even usin', and now I got all the space an' equipment I need to wrangle up some home-made defences. Also, most of the raw materials, thanks to all them fancy cars."

From somewhere in the background, there came the distant sound of Preston Northwest bawling his eyes out.

"Aw, pipe down you!" McGucket grumbled. "It's not as if you'd actually used them for anything other than photo ops. Anyway, Ford, why doncha come on in and we can get to work on a cure together!"

There was a muffled argument on the other end of the speaker, and then the gates swung open, allowing the three of them into the newly-revamped mansion grounds: in the few hours he'd been work, Old Man McGucket had outfitted the front lawn with a small but impressive array of improvised gun turrets, missile launchers, booby traps, and even a handful of tesla coils set up just behind the wall – presumably ready to zap anyone attempting to climb over it. For good measure, as the gates swung shut behind them, a quick glance over Mabel's shoulder revealed that a pair of imposing cannon batteries had been pointed directly at the gates, guaranteeing a nasty surprise for anyone who ever managed to break them down.

And past the glorious mechanical madness of the garden, hobbling through the open front door and down the steps towards them was none other than Old Man McGucket himself, grinning fit to burst.

In almost perfect unison, Grunkle Ford and McGucket threw their arms around each other, drawing themselves into a massive bear hug… though judging by the awkward thud of McGucket's head against the Perspex bubble, Ford was already having to explain a few extremely confusing matters.

Behind them, a distinctly rumpled Preston Northwest strode indignantly down the stairs, still dressed in his usual tailored suit. This time though, he a look on his face that suggested that he'd just had to eat three entire courses of humble pie, plus several generous helpings of crow.

"Come on in, why don't you," he said loudly as he approached. "Scuff your shoes on the paving while you're about it, wipe your mouths on the curtains if you feel like it! It's not as if some of us have to worry about declining property values anymore, now that you've managed to wipe out my savings overnight."

"You're blaming _us_ for what happened to your fortune?" Wendy exploded. "Last I looked, _we_ weren't the idiots who decided to put all our money into Weirdness Stocks!"

"No, you were the idiots who decided to defeat Bill before I could get my affairs in order! If you'd just held out a bit longer, my fortune would have been fine!"

"And if we'd waited longer, we'd all be dead!" Mabel shot back. "Besides, you were the one who wanted Pacifica to join the circle!"

"No, I told her to hold the hobo's hand, with the understanding that I'd have time to sell my soon-to-be-useless stocks before it all went to pot and took the family dignity with it! And yes, I may have re-bought them when it looked like Bill was going to win, but that's beside the point: the point is, I thought having my daughter hold the hobo's hand would mean a victory – I didn't think it'd mean _selling my house to the hobo!"_

Grunkle Ford sighed deeply. "Preston, I don't think I've ever been able to effectively summarize my sentiments towards the Northwest family honour, dignity and fortunes, but I'm going to attempt it here and now: _nobody cares."_

He took a deep breath. "Now, who else is in the manor?"

"My wife, my daughter, and the butler, of course. That's about it: thanks to the sudden loss of salaries, our maid staff has resigned and taken most of the gardeners with them as well; even our mechanic's left the building, and right when he was supposed to be repairing my Lamborghini and replacing the vanity plate on my Porsche and-"

"_Nobody cares, Preston._ Has anyone been out of the house today?"

"My wife visited her favourite hair salon in town this morning with the last of our cash."

"And when did she get back?"

"Around eleven AM."

"Hmmm, probably too early to be infected. You didn't visit any hair salons, did you Mabel?"

Mabel thought for a moment, briefly overjoyed that Grunkle Ford was still on speaking terms with her. "Uh, no," she said at last. "I'm pretty sure Dabel didn't ether. I mean, she left the theatre for a bit to lead the ticket collectors on a chase, but she wouldn't have been able to make it to the salons and run back in that time. I think," she added uncertainly.

"…Okay then. Was anyone else out of the house?"

"Pacifica was out meeting with some of her friends in town," said Preston, "but she came back at about two in the afternoon."

Grunkle Ford's eyes narrowed. "And has she shown any signs of sickness since them? Light-headedness, nausea, fever, auditory hallucinations, anything like that?"

"How should I know? She hasn't been out of her room since she got back."

There was a pause, as Ford appeared to gather himself. "Fiddleford, were you working on anything absolutely vital?" he asked quietly.

"I was halfway through a forcefield emitter for the walls to keep out any invadin' clones."

"Can it wait for five minutes?"

"Can't see why not. It's almost finished."

"Alright then. I'm going to need everyone in this house downstairs in the most convenient conference room we can kind ASAP: they need to know what's been happening, and they need to get a dose of suppressant – just in case. Okay, everyone? It's time we got indoors, ASAP: we've got a lot of material, and not much time before we need to batten down the hatches!"

* * *

Once they were indoors, the butler led them to a sitting room that looked as though it could have doubled as a decent-sized cinema had it not been for the expensive couches and the distinct lack of gum on the floor: the TV alone took up an entire wall of the room, and the sound system loomed over the seats like small cliff-faces.

Moments after they'd taken their seats, they were promptly joined by Preston and Priscilla; the former looked even grumpier than usual, the latter just looked as though she'd been orbiting Pluto. Neither of them had any questions, or even responses to the ongoing crisis: they just sat down in armchairs that looked as though they'd been modelled on thrones and glowered balefully at Grunkle Ford (well, Preston did; Priscilla just sat there looking as if someone had just slapped her across the face with a sturgeon).

By contrast, Pacifica came _rocketing _down the stairs at a speed that, by rights, should have left smouldering tracks in her wake, sliding down the bannister and galloping through the entrance hall towards the sitting room with a shout of _"HI GUYS!"_

"Pacifica!" Preston thundered. "What have I told you about sliding down the stairs and running through the house at that speed… and in _your best shoes-"_

But for once, it seemed as though Pacifica wasn't in the mood to listen to the Northwest patriarch: the expression on her face was almost aglow with excitement, her eyes wide with adrenaline, and a blindingly exuberant smile on her face. In fact, the look was so un-Pacifica-like that Mabel actually had to double-check just to make sure that the figure sprinting towards them wasn't a Mabel clone with dyed hair, but as she drew closer, there was no mistaking her: this was indeed Pacifica Northwest, somehow looking wildly, girlishly excited for the first time since they'd met.

And was it her imagination, or was she wearing even fancier clothes than usual? Granted, she wasn't quite up to the standards of the last time they'd visited, but still, Mabel had never seen Pacifica wear so much _white_ before: white silk dress, white gloves, white shoes, white headband… even indoors, it was a dazzling display.

"Mabel!" she shrieked. "It's so good to see you guys here again! I am _so_ ready for this…"

She blinked, suddenly noticing the hamster ball and the astonishing array of bumps and bruises that Wendy and Ford had acquired in the last hour. "Why are you in a bubble?" she asked. "And what happened to you guys?"

"Never mind that!" Preston grumbled. "Since when have you so flagrantly disobeyed my orders about running through the house? And why are you wearing your best smart-casualwear? We told you those were only to be worn at garden parties!"

"Where's Dipper?" Pacifica asked, ignoring her father entirely. "Is he going to be here soon?"

As one, Mabel, Wendy and Grunkle Ford winced.

"You wouldn't happen to have watched the news lately, would you?" Ford asked, nervously.

"Uh… no. I've been in my room for most of the afternoon, um… trying things on." Pacifica blushed, as if realizing that everyone was looking at her a little strangely. "You know… getting ready… for the big visit…"

"Hang on," said Mabel. "You _knew _we'd be coming?"

"Yeah." Pacifica's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Don't you remember how…"

"What?"

"…Nothing. Er, what's been happening on the news?"

Grunkle Ford sat back in his chair with a sigh and began detailing the events of the last few hours as quickly as possible: over the course of the next two minutes, he explained the Forger Wasps, Mabel serving as host for the Queen, Dipper's conversion, Dabel's infestation run around town, Soos' conversion, the army of Mabel clones, the departure from the Mystery Shack, the capture of Grunkle Stan, and the imminent apocalypse.

"And that," he concluded, "is why everyone here needs to be given a dose of suppressant as soon as humanly possible. Even if you haven't actually made contact with one of the clones today, we need to take prophylactic measures just in case we have any security breaches. _No arguments, _if you please."

He held up the syringe gun by way of emphasis.

There was a pause, as expressions across the room slowly shifted: Preston looked simultaneously dismissive and apprehensive, Priscilla looked mildly perturbed despite her flawless socialite exterior, and Pacifica had completely shut down; from the moment Ford had mentioned Dipper's conversion, her face had slid back into her usual look of doll-like serenity, giving no hint as to what she was really thinking.

Nonetheless, they all rolled up their sleeves and allowed Ford to give them a shot, with McGucket and the Butler lining up to follow them.

"Now," Ford continued, "For as long as we're stuck here, we need to keep this building defended, and I have to focus on getting this cure worked out. Preston, does this building have any security systems worth mentioning?"

"I hardly think that's any of your-"

"We have a panic room," Pacifica deadpanned.

"Must you share our secrets with _everyone?"_

"Hey, it's always _your_ first resort, father. It's not as if you bothered to keep it a secret from any of the guests when you need to run for cover. Now get talking."

"As I was saying," Preston huffed. "In case you hadn't noticed the high walls and titanium-bolted doors, we've recently upgraded the mansion with a full set of security gates to keep out any other gatecrashers my daughter felt like letting in: every door in the building has been outfitted with a set of steel bars, designed to block any uninvited guests from progressing through the building. We also have remote-controlled steel shutters around the window, a shatterproof plexiglass gate covering the stairs, a number of secret entrances bypassing the gates, and a tunnel extending from the garage to the base of this hill. Also, we once had a very capable security staff reinforcing the premises, but given that I no longer have the money to pay them, we'll have to rely on the smelly hillbilly's jerry-rigged gun turrets for now."

"Wonderful," said Ford. "Now, Fiddleford, you mentioned you were using the garage as a lab; I know asking for a shared lab space while you're busy working on a force-field might be overstaying my welcome a little, but-"

McGucket laughed. "Just make yourself at home, ya big dummy. I'll have the force-field finished in about half an hour anyway."

"Really? I mean, I knew you were good, but with the limited materials available to you, I thought you'd have more of a delay than that."

"You'd be amazed at the things the Northwests keep around their garage."

Preston groaned. "Don't tell me, you've cannibalized the fuel cell Ferrari prototype as well."

"The what?"

"…Forget you heard that."

"_No."_

Ford coughed loudly for attention. "In the meantime, I'm going to need everyone to make sure the property is as secure as possible: double-check the doors and windows are locked, make sure the shutters are lowered, take stock of all available food and drink, gather up as many weapons that can be found or improvised, and make sure all the sinks and bathtubs are filled."

"Why?"

"So we don't get caught with our pants down if the clones shut off the water," said Wendy. "If we stockpile some water in advance, we'll be able to hold out longer – useful trick I learned at Disaster Camp."

"What do _I_ do?" Mabel asked.

"For now, the best thing you can do is stay safe," said Ford. "Uh, Pacifica-"

"I'll be in my room," Pacifica snapped, without missing a beat. And without waiting for Ford's permission, she rose from her seat and strode off towards the staircase with a short, clipped gait that probably would have best been described as "stomping" if she hadn't been wearing such expensive shoes.

"I was just about to say that it's really not a good idea for you to be alone," Ford called after her.

Pacifica laughed – bitterly and without a trace of mirth. "Tell that to my parents," she replied, without bothering to turn around.

At this, Preston stood up, a ghost of his old anger briefly flaring to life. "Pacifica Elise Northwest!" he thundered. "Come back here and explain yourself at once! What on earth has gotten into you?"

"Something that you've never experienced in your entire life, father… assuming it was real."

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, you've never known it, so what'd be the point of trying to explain it?" Pacifica shot back.

Even Mabel had to look up in surprise at this; back when she'd finally defied her parents, Pacifica had never answered back quite as casually as this, not even when she'd become immune to the effects of the bell.

"Now you listen to me, Pacifica-"

"I'm _done _listening! You never have anything worthwhile to say! Now _leave me alone!" _she shrieked, her voice cracking loudly. Without another word, she stormed off up the stairs and out of sight, her footsteps slowly receding into the distance until they were finally cut off by the sound of a door being angrily slammed shut.

"What was that all about?" Grunkle Ford wondered aloud.

"I think I can take a wild guess or two," said Wendy quietly. "You might want to keep an eye on her, Mabel, just in case."

"What do you mean?"

"Let's just say you're not the only one who's upset about Dipper…"

* * *

A/N: This chapter's soundtrack is **Seymour's Theme **from Final Fantasy X.

And now for the code!

**Vmqlbrmt gsv hsld hl uzi, Ni Bziw? Dvoo, blf pmld dszg gsvb hzb: Mvnl nv rnkfmv ozxvhhrg...**

Any idea what it might mean? Any idea what might happen next? Feel free to let me know!


	13. Thwarted Hope And Broken Hearts

A/N: And we're back, ladies and gentlemen! Hope you're enjoying the story so far; a huge thank-you to all my viewers, reviewers, favouriters and followers.

Meanwhile, keep on theorizing, keep on guessing, and most importantly of all, feel free to share your ideas in the reviews. Speculation is one of things that gets my heart started in the morning... along with the reviews :)!

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review and above all, enjoy!

* * *

By sunset, the clones had long since swept the streets of Gravity Falls bare.

Almost everyone who could be converted had already been inducted into the ranks of the growing horde and left their old clothes scattered outside the shopping mall. Every home, every shop and every office had been laboriously searched for survivors; every escape attempt had been blocked, forced off the road, or simply overtaken from within. All told, a thorough count of the day's conversions had made certain that only a handful of the townsfolk had escaped conversion: from simplest homes to the priciest clubs and restaurants, Gravity Falls had been effectively depopulated of all human life.

They'd even made some headway into eliminating the town's remaining _simulated_ life, though Rumble McSkirmish had regrettably escaped into the depths of the Internet before the clones had been able to break down the arcade doors. More aggravating was the fact he'd clearly had help from GIFfany, but for now, it was of little concern: neither of the two had any means of warning anyone in the outside world of what might happen, nor did they have any inclination to do so – one being single-minded to the point of social obliviousness, the other being a psychopath with only enough room in her heart for one target at a time. So, for the time being, the Queen's plans could continue unhindered.

Across Gravity Falls, the roads leading in and out of town were being swiftly blockaded with police cars, traffic cones and other official-looking accoutrements, just to make sure that no unwanted visitors happened upon the deserted town. However, in case anyone got too curious, the Mabels were also preparing a nasty surprise further along the road for travellers who wouldn't be deterred by police barriers: spike strips readied along every approach into town, along with a small detachment of Mabels on guard to take care of those unfortunate enough to find themselves stranded in town.

With the streets cleared and the roads secured, the clones were free to continue their expansion into the forests, and from there, begin the mass-conversion of Gravity Falls' nonhuman populace. And once that was finished, they could extend their reach to the next towns along the highway, overwhelming and converting everyone in their path; for every town they captured, the more ground they could cover, expanding in all directions across the United States – and from there, the world…

…But first they would have to deal with the only remaining inhabitants of Gravity Falls currently hold up at Northwest Manor and reclaim the Queen's host.

Stanford Pines and Fiddleford McGucket evidently had plans of formulating a cure, but the Queen had already dismissed this threat as largely irrelevant: even with their combined genius, there was only so much the two scientists could do with the limited resources available to them in their current hideout. Besides, Ford would soon be too busy struggling to deal with the newest roadblock they'd thrown in his path: after all, Stan's assimilation had taught the hive much, and they were all the stronger for it. Even the youngest of their brood had benefited from their newest leap forward… as Ford would no doubt discover very soon.

The Queen was under no illusions however: once they realized they were backed into a corner and operating on borrowed time, the survivors would be forced to improvise more drastic solutions, and if Mabel's memories had taught them anything, it was that the Pines family was at their most dangerous when they were pushed to their limits. Furthermore, Dabel and Sabel were no longer imprisoned alongside them, so for the time being, there was no way of telling what the survivors were up to.

So, as evening slowly descended upon the deserted streets of Gravity, it was with a great deal of curiosity that the advance scouts from the incoming Mabel horde arrived outside Northwest Manor.

By now, it was clear that the defenders had fortified the building quite extensively: gun turrets sat just behind the gates, spiralling masses of brutal-looking machinery flanked the path to the front door, and the formerly-impeccable gardens were clustered with a number of ugly metal hemispheres that looked suspiciously like landmines. And, as their senses swept across the building, they detected something else in the air ahead of them, something _electric_ surrounding the mansion…

Cocking her head to one side in a quizzical tilt, the nearest of the Mabels scooped up a rock from the side of the road and flung it towards the mansion.

Less than three feet from the wall, the rock exploded into gravel. As it did so, a faint shimmer of energy rippled across the property in a broad hemisphere, covering the perimeter wall, the gardens, the mansion itself, and a sizeable chunk of the surrounding mountain.

The Queen hadn't assimilated a great deal of scientific knowledge so far, and the spore implanted in Ford had yet to interface with his memories, but even she knew enough to recognize a force field when she saw one. No matter: if nothing else, the horde would not have to lose valuable bodies in assaulting the building head-on. For now, the Mabels had everything they needed to ensure that nobody could escape the building while they went about finding another way in. If all else failed, they would burrow through the mountain itself to reach the defenders, however long that might take.

Of course, they might not even have to wait that long. After all, they'd prepared for the Northwest family's defences well in advance: they already had one perfectly good ace in the hole.

And, with a little time and careful persuasion, _two._

* * *

"Pacifica? Pacifica, can you just open this door. Come on, we're friends. You don't need to keep yourself locked up like this: what's wrong?"

But once again, the only reply was a muffled shout and a few distinctly unladylike words. Under normal circumstances, Mabel would have been impressed at just how much Pacifica had grown and changed since the days when she'd been under Preston's thumb; she might have even taken notes on some of the more colourful expletives.

But right now, she couldn't afford to get sidetracked and Pacifica couldn't afford to be alone. Now that the initial errands were over and done with, Wendy and Ford had declared that everyone in the building should remain in groups of two or more for safety's sake: quite apart from the need for safety in numbers just in case the clones found another way into the mansion, being paired up ensured that that any symptoms of infestation would be immediately noticed. So, Preston and Priscilla (and their butler) were downstairs in the living room, with Wendy nearby just in case they tried something stupid; Ford and Old Man McGucket were downstairs in the garage at work on the cure; and now it fell to Mabel to look after Pacifica… or at least it _would_ if Pacifica ever entertained the possibility of opening the door to her room at some point in the dim and distant future.

Mabel had been sitting outside the bedroom for the last thirty-five minutes (forty, if you counted the five minutes of exploring and backtracking it had taken to actually find the right room), and in all that time, Pacifica had kept the door very firmly locked. Doubly unfortunately, she wasn't interested in discussing the matter, or anything else for that matter: ever since Mabel had parked her hamster ball outside the door, the room beyond had been completely silent except for the muffled sound of footsteps crossing the improbably-deep carpet. Having more than enough experience with the old "tape recorder in the empty room" trick, she could tell these sounds weren't faked and Pacifica hadn't slipped out her bedroom window or anything like that: she was still in there… but no matter how hard she tried, Mabel just couldn't get through to her.

But despite the silence, she hadn't yet given up. After all, at this point, Mabel needed to have company just as much as Pacifica did: after the disaster on the road and the capture of Grunkle Stan, she honestly didn't want to be alone, and she didn't want to be around anyone who'd be in the mood to tell her that it hadn't all been her fault, hence why she'd gravitated to Pacifica's doorway.

Plus, as long as Mabel was helping out up here, she could gradually push the guilt and despair of the last few hours to the back of her mind, and pretend to be as confident as she always was – as she'd always _appeared _to be.

"Can we at least talk?" she called out. "I mean, it doesn't have to be about anything serious. We can talk about fashion, the latest movies, _Duck-Tective_… or what about music? What do you think of Sev'ral Timez? I mean, you've heard their songs, right? Your dad at least allows you to listen to modern pop music, right? It's not all string quartets and marching bands around here, is it?"

There was a muffled burst of laughter from behind the door. Mabel wasn't exactly an expert on conversations held through locked doors, but even she had to admit that there was a distinctly bitter edge to the laugh.

_Oh well, at least I got her to respond._

"Alright, maybe it's a little hard to listen to Sev'ral Timez now that you've met them in person _and_ helped them fight off a triangular dream demon from another dimension, so… what about… ummmm…"

Mabel floundered for a moment: the lack of a face she could talk to was starting to get under her skin.

"What about mini-golf?" she said at last. "You been back to the course since we last visited? Maybe we can go back for another tournament once this is all over!"

"And what makes you _think_ it's going to be all over?" Pacifica snapped. "Have you looked out the window lately? The clones are already out there, Mabel: there's got to be at least fifty of them already, and there's more of them showing up every minute!"

_Now she's talking! Finally, we're making progress!_

"We've got the force field, don't we?" said Mabel, trying not to sound too victorious. "Grunkle Ford said it could last for days, and your butler said we've got enough supplies in the kitchen to last for a month. Besides, even if they do break in, McGucket's got enough gadgets set up on the lawn to keep them from breaking in anyway. Plus, he says they're nonlethal, too, so we can just knock 'em out and drag them down to the garage to be cured!"

"_If_ we get a cure working."

"What do you mean, 'if'? We've got two of the biggest geniuses in the country working on the problem! Give it time and they'll come up with a cure, no problem."

"Yeah, Mabel," Pacifica sneered. "Real believable. Say it long enough and maybe you'll believe it, too. Nobody out there is gonna be cured: not Soos, not your Grunkle Stan, not even Dipper! _We've already lost!_"

And in that very moment, Mabel knew what was wrong: she'd noticed the way Pacifica's voice had cracked when she'd said Dipper's name, heard the choked sob that had sounded in the ringing silence that had followed this little tirade.

"You miss him, don't you?" she asked quietly. "That's what this is about, isn't it?"

But once again, the voice on the other side of the door was silent.

"Come on, Pacifica," Mabel soothed. "Talk to me: I'm your friend, aren't I? Let me help you. I miss him too, you know. But Ford and McGucket can bring him back: give them enough time and they'll be able to cure _all_ of them."

A sickly, poisonous voice at the back of her head sneered, _if you believed that, then you wouldn't have had the car stopped when you heard about Grenda and Candy. If you believed Ford could help, you wouldn't have yelled at him like that after Grunkle Stan was taken. You're a very bad liar, Mabel, and you're only getting worse…_

There was a long, shuddering sigh, and then Pacifica began to speak in a low, almost toneless voice that was so unlike her that Mabel actually found herself scooting backwards in alarm. "It's not just that I miss him… it's that they're already a step ahead of us."

"The clones?"

"Who else? They _tricked _me! I thought that something good was going to happen, that for once, Father wasn't going to get his way when it came to my future... and then they yanked the rug out from under me! They're making fun of me out there!" Pacifica's voice rose to a scream. "They played me like a Stradivarius and now they're laughing at me because I was stupid enough to believe that everything was going to be okay!I can actually hear them from the window, Mabel, and _all of them are laughing at me!"_

"Pacifica, just take a deep breath and calm down for a minute. Now, what actually happened?"

From the opposite side of the door, there was another shuddering inhalation and then a muffled thud, followed by the sound of something human-shaped sliding along the mahogany. Judging by those shadows, Pacifica was sitting right on the other side of the door, back firmly turned.

"A few hours before all this plague business got started," Pacifica began, "I was down at the shopping mall, wasting time at Clothier's _Exclusive_ – just window shopping, really; I didn't have the money to pay anything, not since Father blew the family fortune on Weirdness stocks. But then I met you hanging around the counter, wearing new clothes… except it _wasn't_ you, was it?"

"You _met_ one of the clones?"

"Nice to know you're keeping up out there."

"Pacifica, did she touch you? Did she-"

"Infest me? Of course she did, Mabel; from what your Grunkle told me, that's all the clones are supposed to do. Except this one didn't infect me on the spot: she said hello, she paid for a new pair of shoes I was after – in cash, by the way – and then we stopped by the café for hot chocolate. Eventually, I started asking questions: what she was doing at the mall, why she wasn't back at the Mystery Shack and getting ready for the party, where she got all the money from… but all she said was that she'd been hoping to meet up with me. Of course, you can easily guess why, but the clone gave a different reason altogether. She said…"

There was a pause.

"Pacifica? Are you okay?"

"She said Dipper was in love with me."

"…what."

"You heard me! She said Dipper had been crushing on me ever since the night of the party, and he'd been trying to find the right way of telling me back when we were working together at the Mystery Shack. 'He doesn't know what to do with himself these days,' she told me. 'Now that you're back at the mansion and your dad won't let him through the gates, Dipper's done nothing but mope: he wants to see you again, Pacifica!' I mean, I thought it was just you playing matchmaker again, but then she started talking about how…" Pacifica swallowed. "How we'd shared something unique there in the mansion: I'd saved him, he'd saved me, and he'd helped make me into a better person. And the more she told me, the more sense it seemed to make."

"So what happened?"

"The clone said that your Grunkles might be able to talk Father into letting Dipper in later that day, and… and we'd be able to go on a date. She said I was _the one_ for Dipper, that sooner or later, we'd be hearing wedding bells…"

Mabel almost laughed, just barely stopping herself in time: it was a horrible time to get an attack of the giggles, but the sentiment was so alien coming from Pacifica that the whole thing automatically sounded absurd.

"She hugged me after that, and… she said that she'd be happy to welcome me into the Pines Family, even called me 'sister.' And then she left."

"And you believed her? You actually believed her when she told you Dipper might want to marry you?"

"Wouldn't _you?"_ Pacifica shot back, suddenly on the defensive. "I've never had a boyfriend before; I haven't even had anything close to a real crush! Ever since I was old enough to socialize outside the family, my father taught me that I couldn't marry anyone who wouldn't be able to bring money and power to the family, and I couldn't make friends with anyone from a family that didn't make upwards of twenty million dollars a year. I mean, my last two friends were _rented _from my father's business partners, just to teach me a lesson about the value of money! I haven't had a real relationship in my entire life, Mabel, and the worst part of it is, I didn't even know there was something wrong until I met you two! You're the first friend I've ever had who wasn't hired or bribed or indentured, and Dipper… he was honest. He was kind. He didn't try to lie to me or manipulate me; he didn't abandon me when everything went wrong. He was there for me when I realized just how rotten my family really was, when I thought there was nothing in my life worth fighting for… And when the clone said that Dipper would be stopping by later today for our first date, I had this wild fantasy of just stepping out of the mansion with him and just never coming back."

_Oh my god, she really _is_ in love._

There was a dreamy, starstruck tone to Pacifica's voice now. "I'd live in the Mystery Shack with you after that; I'd help out in the gift shop, I'd spend afternoons with you and Dipper, and I'd never have to see or hear from my mother and father ever again. Because ever after everything that's happened because of our family, even after losing all that money, there's no chance of any of them ever improving: they'll always be the same cruel, greedy, selfish people I've always known, and the more time I spend around them, the more time they have to make me _more like them._ I don't want to be just another link in the world's worst chain, Mabel; I want to be a better person, and more than that, I want to be with Dipper... and today I thought I'd finally found everything I'd really wanted out of life, everything I'd longed for without even knowing it. But…" There was another choked sob from behind the door. "But it wasn't real, was it? The clone made it all up just to sweet-talk me into carrying this… infestation."

"Pacifica-"

"They _played_ me, Mabel: they toyed with me, told me everything I wanted to hear and watched me make an idiot of myself. They were setting me up for a date with Dipper, and the whole time, he was already one of them! If I hadn't been busy trying to find the right clothes for my date, I'd have been waiting by the gate for you to show up – and I'd probably have opened the door to the first clone that arrived!" Pacifica was crying now, huge gasping sobs that shook the door. "They made me think something real might happen to me for the first time in my life, and then they snatched it away! And now here I am, trapped in the manor all over again, except this time Dipper isn't coming to take me away from it all; this time, Dipper is _dead!"_

For almost a minute, she went on crying, fists banging weakly against the door, until at last both her sobs and the pounding of her fists slowly petered out.

And eventually, Mabel found herself whispering, "Do you need a hug?"

Immediately, she was struck by a tsunami-sized wave of embarrassment, annoyance and regret. What a stupid thing to say under the circumstances! As if there weren't enough infestations going on already!

"That _might_ not be such a good idea at this point," Pacifica replied. By that point, she almost too tear-choked to be properly deadpan, but there was just enough of the old sarcasm in her voice to let Mabel know she'd got her foot jammed in her mouth again.

"Well… you know, I'm not saying _I_ need to hug _you_. Not that I wouldn't want to do that, of course. I'm just saying that you can hug the hamster ball while I'm in it. I mean, it might not be a bit lacking in the ol' human warmth and comfort, but… I mean, I can kind of hug you back from inside the – okay, you know what? Let's just shelve that idea. If you need a hug, I can go downstairs and get one of the hazmat suits from Grunkle Ford and come back here to give you a hug. It'll still be a bit awkward, but-"

"Mabel, I'm _fine," _Pacifica sighed. "I'm okay now. I've gotten everything off my chest now, and I'm almost back to normal. Well, as normal as I can be with an alien fungus-wasp-thing crawling around in my veins. I just… I just want to be alone for a little while so I can rethink my life. And maybe, if we get through this alive – _if –_ maybe you can give me a hug then."

"Sounds fair. And by the way, just remember, Dipper's not dead: he's just been converted into one of those things out there. As soon as we get the cure working, we'll be able to bring him back just as he was before, and then you two can have your date together."

"That's still assuming we can get the cure working by then, but-"

"We will, I promise you! _And _I'll pick out the most romantic spot in Gravity Falls for you and Dipper. And no matter what happens between you and your dad, you can stay with us at the Mystery Shack for as long as you like!"

There was a pause, and Mabel got the impression – possibly imagined – that Pacifica was smiling.

"I'd… I'd like that."

"Everything's going to be okay, Pacifica. Just remember that. I'm going to head downstairs and get some dinner now; I'll bring a tray up for you as well. And don't worry about the infestation. As long as we've got Grunkle Ford's suppressant, you'll be safe as houses."

* * *

The Grey Professional huffed irritably to himself. "This is most irregular, sir," he said icily. "The rules on client-to-operative communication are very clear: progress reports and video footage only; no face-to-face communication, only audio – and that's only during initial bidding. I'm not supposed to speak to you until the denouement."

"Hey, I won't tell if you won't."

"You're missing the point, Mr Yard: we could get into serious trouble if anyone sees us talking to one another."

"Who's gonna see us? Who in that armpit of a dimension is gonna blab to your supervisors? You said that the only people left in Gravity Falls are clones of Mabel, and they're on your side, right? You're the only agent the Squad has in this dimension. We're safe as houses, pal."

"And what if someone feels like tapping the commlinks?"

"Well, you haven't actually seen my face or learned my real name, remember? Believe me, I've been at this game a long time, and I know for a fact that you haven't broken any rules yet."

The Grey Professional sighed deeply, and tried valiantly not to think of the reaming he'd be due for if the supervisors back at Squad headquarters got wind of this illicit little chat. If nothing else, Mr Yard had at least been prudent enough to keep his face and species concealed with a scrambling filter, which was more than could be said for some of the clients he'd worked for over the years… but even they hadn't been brash or stupid enough to actually insist on a direct line of communication. Buffers between clients and agents existed for a very good reason; any being wealthy enough to afford the kind of services Yard had requested were generally savvy enough to issue orders only through the Grey Professional's handlers – unless, of course, they actually _wanted_ the authorities to take an interest in them.

As far as he could tell, the figure on the other end of the holoprojector was tall, male, nominally humanoid, and dressed in a massive, form-concealing cowl. Beneath that, his body was a pixelated blur of random images, a virtual Proteus of computer-distorted graphics. To any of the inhabitants of this primitive culture, he might have seemed ghostly, even chthonic. To the clones, he would probably have been regarded with disgust, if only because they wouldn't have been able to assimilate him.

To the Grey Professional, he was the wealthiest and most unconventional client he had ever met.

"What exactly did you want to tell me?" the Professional asked.

"I need you to pick up the pace."

"Is that all?"

"I'm serious, Grey. Certain… interested parties… are starting to notice the payments I'm making to your account, and the longer they sniff about, the closer I get to being caught with my claws in the cookie jar. At best, it'll be my old pals who find out – in which case, they'll try and steal all the money for some hairbrained scheme to invade; at worst, it'll be one of the… older powers. Either way, if I get caught and robbed, you're not getting paid the full sum and those bonuses will be revoked on the spot!"

And that was one of the many things thing about this mysterious client that simultaneously intrigued and infuriated the Grey Professional. In his line of work, it was common to receive commissions from the shadier end of interdimensional society: over the centuries, gangs, crime lords, cult leaders, dictators, despots-in-exile, sorcerers, megalomaniacal A.I.s and even a few disenfranchised evil spirits had sought the services that only he and the Squad could provide, and securing payment in the face of legal attention wasn't unusual. But who the hell was Mr Yard that he needed to worry about an invasion or attention from the older powers?

He sighed and shook his head. He wasn't an inquiring mind by nature – few men in his line of work were – but Yard seemed to be doing his level best to inspire a sense of curiosity, another reason why this particular client was starting to get on his nerves.

"I still have a line of communication with the Queen," he sighed at last. "She's already working on a means of breaching the manor's defences from within. Once Stanford Pines and Fiddleford McGucket have been converted, the best chance humanity has of curing this infestation goes out the window, and the total assimilation of Earth is guaranteed."

"Mabel has to be captured before then. I want her in custody before the week's done, and I want her to witness every minute of what happens next – the collapse of global society, the extinction of the human race, everything. Once that's done, you'll get your payment in full… but not before I witness the moment she finally breaks."

_Why do you want to torture this annoying child so? _The Grey professional wondered to himself. _She's achieved a lot in the last few months, but what has she done to injure someone in your neck of the woods? And why do you want such a _sugary _approach to tormenting her? Why the torture-via-universal-kindness approach? I'd have thought that- no, no, I'm not wondering about this at all. I am not curious, I am not curious at all, I am not curious…_

"It will be done," he said at last.

"Good. Oh, and her reaction to the big speech was particularly nice. I'd to see more of that, just to hammer home the guilt."

"Very well then. Will that be all?"

"I think I've said enough, yes. Happy hunting, Agent Amontillado."

Behind his scarf, the Grey Professional's face contorted with disgust and shame. "I haven't used that callsign in over a hundred years," he hissed.

"Like I said, I've been around for a long, long while, and the guy who told me about you… well, he's been around even longer. We've got eyes everywhere, pal. Just think about that…"

And with that, William Yard VIII signed off, leaving the Grey Professional with nothing but infuriating questions.

* * *

A/N: Who could our mystery client be? Who are the Grey Professional's handlers? Feel free to theorize, folks.

Meanwhile, this chapter's soundtrack choice is **Homecoming, **by Jeff Russo.

And now for the code - short and sweet this time!

**Mvnl nv rnkfmv ozxvhhrg...**


	14. Where's The Fun Without Complications?

A/N: Aaaand I'm back! Sorry for the delay - the laptop is not in a very cooperative mood at the moment. My heartiest congratulations to everyone who viewed, reviewed, favourited and followed - and my apologies if I didn't get around to replying to your reviews - I'll do my best to keep up... just as soon as this laptop gets the hang of keeping up with what I'm doing...

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls is still not mine.

* * *

"Dammit!"

"Still no luck?"

"The cure serum keeps losing coherence whenever we apply it to samples of clone DNA. We've got the basic idea down, but it's still not strong enough to actually reverse the changes made to an individual. And as for the simulated effects of the Forger Wasp's own biological control over the organism, I might as well be trying to knock down a concrete wall with a toothpick. How's the force field?"

"According to m'dashboard here, it's holdin' up. Thanks to that fuel cell, I should have enough power to keep it goin' for at least a month. Same goes for all them tesla coils and turrets I've set up – though they're eatin' a lot less power now that I've dial 'em down to nonlethal settin's."

"Let's hope it doesn't take any longer than that. Good god almighty, I really wish I'd packed some decent scotch for this little sojourn. You wouldn't happen to have the old portable still with you by any chance, Fiddleford?"

"Sorry; I left it back at the junkyard."

"Damn."

As Fiddleford had promised, the Northwest Manor's garage was nothing short of extraordinary, a veritable Aladdin's cave of all things automobile related – a far cry from the days when it had been little more than a stable for Nathaniel Northwest's thoroughbreds and carthorses. Ostensibly four hundred feet of parking space tucked into the shadow of the mansion, it turned out that the semi-detached building was a lot more impressive than it initially appeared: the bulk of the garage burrowed deep into the core of the mountain on which the manor had been build, extending several hundred feet underground, alongside the legendary Northwest family vaults. Here, classic luxury cars, perfectly-restored antiques, top-of-the-line sports cars, experimental prototype "gifts" and an entire fleet of limousines sat gleaming under the sterile lights of the garage, just waiting for a photo opportunity – or an opportunistic thief.

Deep in the bowels of the garage, in a spot that had been reserved for next year's biggest fad, Fiddleford had built an impressive laboratory in the last few hours: having found the mechanic's workbench and supplies, he'd quickly set to work dismantling cars and using them as components in his latest line of home defence mechanisms. Thankfully, there'd been a spare workbench down there, and now, Ford's own equipment was set up atop it and humming contentedly to itself.

Unfortunately, the computer seemed to be the only thing in the building that _was _contented: the latest cure prototypes were not working out, Preston kept stopping by to grumble over how many Bugattis had been cannibalized, Pacifica was still holed up in her room, and the Mabels were clearly gathering for an out-an-out siege of the mansion.

On the upside, Ford and Fiddleford had managed to finish work on the prototype shield generator in record time long before the horde had arrived, and thanks to a few tricks Ford had picked up during his path across the multiverse, they'd managed to make it stronger than previously predicted. Already, the generator had been transported to a location that would give it the biggest possible transmission range – namely, up in the mansion's attic – and was now layering the entire building in its near-invisible radiance. As long as the generator remained active, the mansion would be protected.

Sadly, that had left the two inventors with precious little to do but puzzle over the cure and debate over what to do next… and given the number of fields they were qualified in, they had far too many ideas for their own good.

"Maybe we should try somethin' surgical," Fiddleford suggested. "If we can't kill the parasite with chemicals, maybe we can shrink it down until we can just cut it out of the body and then try an' cure the conversion from there."

Ford thought for a moment "Hmmm. If it's based on a fungal root structure, maybe there's forms of radiation that can reduce a Forger Wasp's spread across the body… but that carries the risk of harming the host as well."

"The clones are pretty tough, though."

"True, but even they have limits. What about mechanical options? Have you conducted any experiments with nanotechnology?"

"Oh, I tried… but then I ended up nearly dyin' of tetanus."

"Ouch. Well, on the upside, we're working with a much more sterile workspace. Question is, can we engineer a crop of nanomachines powerful enough to kill a Forger Wasp from the inside?"

Fiddleford rubbed his nose thoughtfully, idly chewing the edge of the plaster cast on his hand. "Maybe we don't need them to be that strong at all," he said at last. "Nanomachines aren't just for killin' pests, but for boostin' immune systems and improvin' chemical efficiency. So maybe we can try a mixture, get a strong enough version of your cure and boost it with the nanos, _and_ the suppressant. The suppressant stops these wasp thingumajiggers from gettin' in the way while the boosted cure works its magic-"

"-and once the conversion's reversed, we inject a secondary strain of nanomachines to kill the parasitoid!"

"Y'see? We got this whole thing figured out!"

"Trouble is, Fiddleford, we need time to put this together _and_ to come up with a version of the cure that doesn't completely fall apart if someone breathes on it. We've just got to hope we can hold out long enough to get this working… and that Preston Northwest didn't waste the last of the kitchen supplies on his annual soiree."

"Guess that's our cue to think of something that can outdo the shield generator," Fiddleford chuckled. "I'd best go and check to make sure that durn roof ain't gonna collapse on it. Y'never know with these old shacks..."

However, as he turned to leave, he glanced strangely in Ford's direction. "Are you wearin' hair dye?" he asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"Er, no."

"Is that helmet you're wearing tinting your hair or something?"

"…not to my knowledge. Uh, why do you ask?"

"It's just that… well, my memory's still on the mend, but I'm pretty sure your hair used to be grey… and before that, it _definitely_ wasn't that shade of brown."

There was a pause, as the logical implications of the matter slowly began slotting into place.

"Ooooooooh _crap-baskets_…"

* * *

"Why haven't we just done the sensible thing?"

Mabel had been on the verge of descending the staircase when the first inklings of the conversation below had reached her, and given that her hamster ball wasn't meant for stealth, it took a great deal of restraint and backpedalling to prevent her from rolling noisily down the steps as she listened in. In the end, she couldn't stop her descent: instead, she trundle down the stairs at a glacial pace, hoping against hope that nobody would notice the balancing act she was performing just to make sure the hamster ball remained quiet.

At the moment, it seemed as though Wendy was stuck babysitting the rest of the household: she, Preston, Priscilla and the family butler were all gathered around in an anxious-looking huddle in the shadow of the grand staircase, and were currently in the midst of a very heated conversation from the sounds of things. Of course, given that the butler never said anything unless prompted and Priscilla was still in shock, most of the discussion was being carried by Wendy and Preston.

"I'm serious," he was grumbling. "We have a very obvious solution to the problem sitting right in front of us, and nobody's even addressed it: these wasps or hornets or whatever they might be – their queen is inside Mabel. All we have to do is-"

"Do not even finish that sentence, Northwest," Wendy snarled.

"For god's sakes, do you want to live or not? What's more important to you, the life of your friend or the lives of literally everyone on the planet?"

"Putting aside the fact that you don't give a damn about either of them, it's not your call to make! We're here to make a cure for infestation, not kill the hosts… or did you miss all the recalibration I was helping McGucket with?"

Preston huffed monumentally, drawing himself up to his full height as he did so. "Listen," he grumbled, "I know you think the fact that one of your ancestors died in the construction of this mansion awards you a say in its management. Well, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but _inheritance does not work that way!_ As the heir to the Northwest family fortune and properties, _I_ am the de facto manager of any operations that take place in this manor, so by default, this _is_ my call to make!"

"Alright, first of all: go to hell. Secondly, _what_ fortune? Thirdly, you were selling the place, so you've waived your rights to be manager of anything!"

"…goddammit."

"That's what I thought."

And in that moment, Mabel's hamster ball descended the last step on the staircase with a loud _clack_ – immediately drawing the attention of everyone in earshot. For five heart-stopping seconds, she could only stand there, a deer in the proverbial headlights, suddenly very much aware of what Preston had just been suggesting. Fortunately, it seemed as though the huddle was every bit as scared as she was, because none of them moved either.

The seconds ticked by.

And then Preston said, "There's a fowling piece on the-"

"You even think of trying and-"

"It'll only take a-"

"Um…"

"Preston, dear, I really don't think we should-"

"Just listen to me-"

"Guys?"

"Sir, I don't know if we have any ammunition for the-"

"-gonna take that fowling piece and ram it so far-"

"I really don't think it would wash off that easily-"

"For god's sake, listen to me! She won't suffer-"

"Just a suggestion, guys, if anyone's listening…"

"-not in my contract, you see, sir-"

"You're talking about shooting someone, you ass!"

"So what? Plebs get shot all the time, pleb children doubly so: it's a logical consequence of not being able to afford admittance to boarding school-"

"Oh, that does it, I'm going to have you stuffed and mounted, you gap-toothed c-"

"SHUT UP OR I'LL GIVE ALL FOUR OF YOU THE BOWLING BALL TREATMENT!" Mabel exploded.

A ringing silence descended on the entrance hall, as the echoes of Mabel's outburst very gradually died away; given the sheer scale of the place, it took almost a full minute. Eventually, Mabel remembered what she'd meant to say before she'd gotten drowned out: "If anyone has any ideas on what to do next," she suggested wearily, "Then maybe – just _for the sake of argument –_ maybe we should check with the one guy in the mansion who actually knows all about the Forger Wasps. Just throwing that out there."

"Haven't we had enough dealings with that bedlamite in the last few hours?"

"I'll give you bedlamite, ya-"

There was a loud cough from one of the doorways across the entrance hall. "I sincerely hope nobody minds me asking this," said Grunkle Ford, "but _what_ exactly is going on out here?"

"And _why_ were we hearin' it from the garage?" added McGucket.

There was a sharp intake of breath from Preston and Priscilla, and all at once, Mabel found herself unable to keep the smirk off her face: as expected, the two scientists had been cannibalising the contents of the garage for anything that could be repurposed for their experiments, and the pair of them were covered in dirt and grime from their dissections – McGucket all but slimed up to the elbows in engine oil. And judging by the uniform looks of barely-restrained hysteria on the faces of the Northwests, they didn't much appreciate the idea of so much grease being within staining distance of their carpets.

Also, for some reason, Ford appeared to be wearing a bandanna over his hair; combined with the bubble-shaped helmet, it made him look as though he'd randomly decided to go trick-or-treating as a space pirate.

"Well? We're waiting."

Preston huffed again. "I was proposing the idea that nobody at all seems comfortable with voicing: if Mabel is currently host to the Queen of these Wasps, why don't we just do the sensible thing and ensure that the Queen isn't around to give orders anymore? That way, we can wipe out the entire parastioid army with one stroke, _and _save the world. And my investments," he added importantly.

And in spite of herself, Mabel actually found herself feeling a subtle sense of dawning fear creeping up her spine in the pause that followed. What if that _would_ be the best option? Grunkle Ford _would_ know if that was the quickest and easiest way of stopping the Forger Wasps, wouldn't he? True, he probably wouldn't actually admit it in front of the Northwests, not while he was still working on a cure, but his expression would probably say it all. Anxiously, she surveyed Grunkle Ford's face, praying that she wouldn't see that tell-tale look of dawning despair appear in his eyes.

To her immense relief, Ford's expression didn't waver. Indeed, he looked even more annoyed than ever before. "Preston," he sighed, "this is _reality."_

"And?"

"It so happens that the Forger Wasps' hive structure was modelled on real eusocial insects, not Hollywood clichés: killing the Queen is not a guaranteed method of killing the hive. In fact, some communal insects like bees and wasps have actually been known to murder their own queens, but that's beside the point. The point is that killing the Queen – and by extension, Mabel – won't help."

"Why not? There's only one of her, right?"

"Have you ever seen how bees create _their_ queens? They start out as anonymous grey larvae like all the other grubs in the hive, up until they're put on a non-stop diet of royal jelly: instead of becoming drones or workers, they mature into replacement queens. Now, imagine if you would, a bee being able to take a transformative dose of royal jelly at a moment's notice – say, the moment it learns that a queen's just died… and apply that to the Forger Wasps."

"You mean-"

"The moment a Forger Wasp Queen dies, a vast biochemical chain reaction begins across the entire hive as a new Queen is selected at random: psychic connections are realigned, biological processes are altered, and a parasitoid adapts to a parasite lifestyle. In the unlikely event that the old Queen was killed without actually harming the host, the new Queen will be immediately compelled to re-infest her previous vessel. But, on the other hand, if the royal host was killed along with the old Queen… well, the new hive monarch just rewrites her old host accordingly."

"But that's impossible!"

"Is it? Thanks to the hive mind, the Forger Wasps have access to all the memories of the royal host, every personality trait captured in perfect detail. All the new Queen has to do is pump all that information into the empty brain of her current host body, essentially recreating Mabel anew in one of her clones, all so they can have another mind to feast upon. It's not perfect, and there are some deaths that the Forger Wasps can't preserve their royal hosts against – old age being the most prominent – but for all intents and purposes, the Queen and her host are effectively immortal as long as the hive has sufficient numbers to replace them."

Preston thought for a moment, brow wrinkling in consternation. "You've described the long-term effects," he said at last. "What about the short-term? Can the Forger-Wasps actually do anything while their new Queen is being selected?"

"No, no: without psychic guidance and sustenance, they're left unconscious for the next few hours until a replacement is augmented to that end-"

"Then that's our advantage! We kill Mabel, then use the coma period to kill all the other Mabel clones! Problem solved!"

Ford groaned. "Preston, I'm sure we all have important contributions to make to this particular endeavour… but in all honesty, I think the most important thing you can contribute at the moment is _silence_."

"But-"

"Just stand in the corner while the adults are talking, would you please? Wendy, keep an eye on him in case he does anything stupider than usual."

"Already doing it."

"Good. Now…" Ford took a deep breath. "If the drama is over for the time being, McGucket and I need to get back to work… but first I've got to take a pitstop at the kitchen. I am just about out of my mind with hunger over here…"

As he turned to leave, Mabel found her gaze drifting up to the face behind his helmet, suddenly finding herself gripped by a curious sense of the unfamiliar.

Was it her imagination, or did Grunkle Ford look just a tiny bit younger?

* * *

"Holy hootenanny," Fiddleford muttered. "You're sure?"

"Positive. According to all the tests, the Forger Wasp in my body is still developing; true, it's doing so at a significantly reduced rate, but that doesn't change the fact that it's getting closer and closer to full conversion." Ford sighed deeply. "The suppressant is no longer working as it should."

"Maybe there's somethin' wrong with the formula."

Ford groaned and wearily thumped the hood of a gleaming Rolls Royce, leaving a very satisfying oily handprint on the polished bodywork. By now, he had given up on sitting still: anxiety had forced him out of his chair and into a frantic pace around the makeshift lab, forcing Fiddleford to hurry after him in a desperate attempt to keep up with the conversation.

"There's nothing wrong with the suppressant," Ford grumbled. "All checks confirm that it should stymie the Forger Wasp's growth."

"Alright then, maybe it's the duplication process: maybe you couldn't get the same chemical balance with the equipment you got in this dimension, so it's not as effective."

"No, no. I checked: I've got samples of both the original formula and my replica, and they are chemically identical. This isn't something on our end, Fiddleford."

"Then what could it be? And come to think of it, why are you sweatin' so much?"

"…Oh, I don't know. It _could_ have something to do with the fact that I'm wearing an extremely stuffy plastic bubble over my head, or it could have something to do with the fact that the only thing saving us from conversion is no longer working and we're bivouacked down for the night with a blue-blooded idiot who seems to believe that murdering my niece is the best solution to the problem at hand. Just a shot in the dark."

"You're not gettin' anywhere by bein' sarcastic, Ford. And more to tha point, you're not just sweatin': you're _drownin'_ in there. I'm serious, I haven't seen your eyebrows drippin' this much since that experimental smoke grenade set off the sprinklers. In fact…" Fiddleford's eyes narrowed. "Take off the helmet a second."

"What? No, Fiddleford, I thought we'd established-"

"Just for a second! And try not to sneeze, if you can help it."

Ford sighed and removed his helmet, exposing his face to fresh air for the first time in hours and hastily covering his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. Then, reaching out with a surgical swab, Fiddleford carefully collected a few sweat samples from Ford's dripping-wet brow before finally allowing him to put his helmet back on. Computer assessment of the collected specimens took several minutes, but eventually, Fiddleford let out a string of Appalachian expletives as the results arrived on the monitor in front of him.

"What? What's wrong?"

"You're metabolizin' the suppressant too quickly, Ford. Your body is _forcin' _the stuff out of your system ahead of schedule, and the more you lose, the faster that parasitoid grows!"

"But that's impossible!"

"Really? How many times have you eaten in the last few hours? How much water have you drunk in the last few minutes? And don't lie to me, Ford, I've seen you takin' those emergency trips to the kitchen – you've still got cookie crumbs on your collar! Somethin's amped up your metabolism so the serum's wearing off sooner, and your skyrocketing body temperature's a symptom of that!"

"But how could that…"

Ford's eyes widened; his heart abruptly hammered to a stop as the shock rippled across him, the sweat on his brow turning ice-cold as the logical implications of what he'd just learned slowly clicked into place. "Oh _god,"_ he muttered. "I was too late all along."

"What do you mean?"

"I found out about my infestation just in time to stop the Forger Wasp inside me from initiating transformation… but not soon enough to stop it from interfacing with vital parts of my body. The parasitoid's tendrils must have reached areas of my brain that regulate metabolism, and probably my liver and kidneys as well. And… well, you've seen the effects already."

"Question is, if the Forger Wasp could do that, why didn't it do that before? How would it _know _to do that?"

Ford bit his lip. "Well, if I'm gauging the wasp's age correctly, it must be old enough to have at least a partial connection to the hive mind – enough to receive orders. Somehow, the Forger Wasp Queen must know about the suppressant's limitations, and she's psychically instructing the little bastard in here on how to force the serum out of my body so it can start growing again."

"So how would the Queen have learned that?"

Ford very slowly closed his eyes. There was only one logical answer to Fiddleford's question, and he didn't want to acknowledge it any more than he actually wanted to voice it, but he had to – no matter how much it hurt.

"From Stanley," he said quietly.

"What?"

"She learned it from Stanley. His body would have still been flooded with suppressant around the time the clones captured him, and if they took the time to psychically analyse his blood as they overwhelmed him, the Queen would have been able to learn everything she needed to know about the formula – and how to force the body to metabolize it. For all I know, she might very well be cooking up an antidote to it even as we speak."

There was a deathly pause.

"Jesus, Ford. You know what this means?"

"Yes," said Ford miserably. "It means that it's as I feared: Stanley's been fully converted already."

"No, worse than that! It means that if them Northwests got infested before, the dose of suppressant you gave 'em might already be wearin' off! If they had enough time, their Forger Wasps might have the same loopholes yours did. Everyone in this house might be in danger!"

"Well, if we get them an extra dose of suppressant, it might buy them a few more hours. In fact, maybe I can do that right now. We've got enough leftover doses of formula-"

"No."

"No?"

"Ford, physical activity _naturally_ accelerates metabolism: the more runnin' around you do, the faster the drug wears off. You need to sit down, take another shot of suppressant, do somethin' quiet, and stay calm. I'll head upstairs and make sure everyone gets a shot."

"Oh. Okay then. I'll just stay here and work on the cure-"

"No, no, no!" Fiddleford yelled. "I thought we just established that you couldn't do anything too stressful!"

"But the cure has to take priority now! Even on double-doses of suppressant, we're still living on borrowed time, and that means that-"

"_I'll handle it, Ford._ From now on, I'll work on a nanotech cure for the infestation and you'll advise. In the meantime, work on something nice, quiet and nonstrenuous: just tinker about on the workshop, write something for a new journal – anything, so long as you don't run around and work yourself up any further."

Ford sighed and sat down heavily in one of the plastic lawn chairs sitting by their workbench. "Yes, dear," he said wearily.

"And no lip outta you. Roll your sleeve, now; you're up for a second dose."

As Fiddleford went about injecting him with the syringe gun, Ford barely managed to stifle a groan of bemusement. "Some things never change, do they?" he asked nobody in particular. "After thirty years of separation and mutual insanity, you're right back to telling me I need to take better care of my health and I'm right back to grumbling on about having more work to do."

"Well you _do_ need to take better care of your health! I mean, now Bill's gone, you can at least afford to enjoy a few extra hours of sleep every night. Besides, at the rate your heart's poundin', you need a sit-down. Remember, the calmer you get, the slower the drug metabolizes."

"More likely the parasitoid will keep amplifying my metabolism until I just drop dead of cardiac arrest. Much as I hate to admit it, at damn near sixty years of age, I'm no spring chicken anymore."

Fiddleford glanced curiously up at Ford's sweat-soaked face, and then smiled in spite of himself. "I, uh, don't want to celebrate this or anything like that, but you might not have to worry about your age. By now, I'm thinking you're closer to forty-five than sixty."

"Really?"

"No mistakin' it: apart from the change in hair colour, you haven't been given any of Mabel's traits, so the transformation's been restricted to your age."

By way of evidence, he held up a shaving mirror. Sure enough Ford's hair had turned a rich shade of chestnut more commonly associated with Mabel, but other than that, his face was virtually identical to the terror-stricken interdimensional fugitive that had stared back at him from so many silvery deck-plates back when he'd been exploring Dimension #2798. There were still a few remnants of his true age there, with a prominent touch of grey at his temples and several wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, but slowly fading as he descended from the early years of old age to the late years of middle age.

"Oh, even better," he sighed. "I'm re-entering the prime of my life and the peak of my physical strength, and I won't be able to make use of it without making things worse."

"Aw, hush," Fiddleford clucked. "You just sit tight and try to work on something easy and simple, and I'll be back soon. And don't worry about the metabolism," he added, as he gathered up some extra vials. "Knowin' this family, there's probably something sedative in the bathroom cabinets we can use to bring you down."

And with that, he hurried off… leaving Ford alone in the garage with only his thoughts and an entire tray of cannibalized car parts to occupy his time.

Sighing, he set to work on cobbling together the first device that sprung to mind – an ethereal radio receiver – trying valiantly not to think about the transformation he would soon undergo and the global apocalypse to follow…

…and for a while, it almost worked.

* * *

A/N: This chapter's soundtrack choice is **Exploring Stanley **by the Blake Robinson Synthetic Orchestra.

And now for the code!

**Nvhhztv uli gsv Jfvvm: rmrgrzgv rmgrnrwzgrlm nvzhfivh. Gsvb'iv hgroo mlg wrhgizxgvw vmlfts; dv mvvw grnv uli gsv zxv gl nzpv rgh nlev…**


	15. Her Master's Voice

A/N: And we're back! Sorry for the delay, everyone - had a few complicated matters to attend to, needed to focus a little less on fanfic, and this story ended up getting the short end of the stick. A big thank-you to all who viewed, reviewed, favourited and followed - you lovely people give me strength!

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls is still not mine.

* * *

It had only been a few minutes since Grunkle Ford had broken up the argument, but to Mabel, Wendy and the Northwests in attendance, it felt like decades. As for the butler, he'd long since scurried off to deal with another one of his mysterious errands in the bowels of the mansion, so nobody knew what he thought of the passage of time.

With little else to do but wait for a cure, the bemused little quartet had slipped into an anxious, suffocated kind of lethargy: somehow, they'd all managed the rare feat of being bored, nervous, sleepy and wide-awake all at once, at once too tired to pay much attention to anything but too agitated to nod off. Somehow, this had led to all four of them collapsing into armchairs and turning on the ludicrously oversized TV in search of something to occupy their time.

So far, they weren't having much luck: most of the channels were showing nothing but static, and the others had been hijacked by the Mabels in order to show off even more of their uniquely-disturbing brand of journalism; reports on the advancing conversion, interviews with high-ranking clones, and even mocking little weather reports were now the mainstay of the daily programming. The one exception to this was a lone neglected entertainment channel, which was now playing nothing but reruns of _Ducktective_. In the absence of any other options, Wendy had picked the reruns.

Mabel was in no mood to enjoy any of it, of course.

All she could think of was the Forger Wasps advancing across the remains of Gravity Falls, flushing out the few remaining survivors, cutting off escape routes, blockading roads, destroying vehicles, inching through the forests, creeping inexorably closer to the highways. Mabel couldn't be sure of what their plan for the big expansion might be, but since the clones obviously couldn't drive without getting stopped by the cops, most of them would probably hitchhike across state lines, relying on the charity of strangers to continue their spread to the rest of the United States… and as they travelled onwards, the victims they'd left in their wake would begin to change. They wouldn't need to take over other cities the way they'd conquered Gravity Falls, for the rest of the world hadn't seen the things Roadkill County had been witness to in the last few months; most people weren't ready to put up the kind of resistance that the Mystery Shack or Northwest Manor had, and if they were… well, they probably wouldn't be up to fighting an enemy that looked like a thirteen-year-old girl. No, the Mabels wouldn't be bogged down with little duties like eliminating possible cures or keeping their Queen safe: they'd just need to plant a few seeds here and there, shake a hand or two, tap on a few shoulders here and there, bump into a handful of people on a crowded subway car, and then move on.

Bit by bit, the world would change and the human race would change with it; the cure would fail, the fading personalities of the infested hosts would die, and soon the Forger Wasps would reign supreme. And then…

What would happen next?

What would life be like as the Forger Wasps' captive? What would they do with her once they'd captured and caged her? Would they force her to take a role in their takeover, let her go running for help so she could accidentally infect anyone who tried to rescue her? Or would they just keep her locked away until the job was done? More to the point, what would they do once they'd taken over the United States, once they'd conquered the entire western hemisphere and moved on to the rest of the world?

Would it ever end?

Mabel shook her head. She couldn't afford to think that far into the future, not when there was so much more to worry about in the present. For now, the Forger Wasps were busy with the siege of Northwest Manor… but sooner or later, there'd be enough of them to creep away from the front lines and make for the nearest highway, where the nightmare Mabel had been trying to force out of her head would come true.

One hitchhiking Mabel, a friendly motorist, a handshake, and a bit of distance; that'd be all the Forger Wasps would need to turn their infestation into a plague.

_And it'll be all your fault,_ a nasty little voice in the back of her head sneered. _Wouldn't be the first time, though, would it?_

Mabel was halfway through trying to convince herself that none of this disaster had been her fault – as Grunkle Stan, Grunkle Ford and Wendy had all tried to do beforehand – when there was a loud blaring sound from the cinema-sized TV screen, and the current episode of _Ducktective_ suddenly winked out of existence. After a few seconds of static and white noise, the interference suddenly resolved into Gravity Falls News live on location right outside Northwest Manor, with Shandra Jiminez predictably replaced by a grinning Mabel dressed in a passable replica of the anchors' usual clothes.

"We interrupt this rerun for an important announcement from the Forger Wasp Queen!" Shanbel yapped, phosphorescent teeth gleaming under the harsh lights of the camera crew. "Hello to all of you up in Northwest Manor! For anyone interested in resolving this peacefully, now's the time – so listen up!"

"You gotta be kidding me," muttered Wendy. "We can't even watch TV without these things getting in the way?"

But Shanbel wasn't finished: "We know you're watching TV, Mabel, so don't bother pretending you can't hear this – after all, we own all the local stations, and we've jammed everything from out of town. We also know you can answer us. If you can like, you can just pick up the phone and dial this number…" She held up a placard with the GFN's phone-in number hastily scrawled across it. "Or you can get up on the wall and talk to us in person! Your choice, Mabel."

There was a pause, as all four of them considered this.

"Don't take the bait," Wendy advised. "If they want you outside, it's because they've got something planned."

"What about the phone option?"

"They're not actually calling to talk sense, Mabel, they're doing this to get on your nerves."

"And how do _you_ know that?" Preston demanded.

"First thing they taught us in apocalypse training: keep the enemy scared and pissed-off 'til they're too rattled to think straight, then strike. Doesn't matter if you're stealing supplies or raiding an encampment – same principle applies one way or another. As for the phone thing, I still wouldn't call them even if they really were going to-"

Another deafening blare from the TV abruptly cut her off.

"If you don't feel like talking," said Shanbel cheekily, "Then we'll just have to give _you_ a call instead."

A moment later, Wendy's phone began ringing loudly; no sooner had Wendy switched it off, Preston's own top-of-the-line smartphone started ringing off the hook; then, Priscilla Northwest's phone registered an incoming call as well. There was a pause of perhaps five seconds, as the four of them wondered if the butler had defied regulations and brought a phone to work.

Then _every phone in the mansion began ringing at once._

As Mabel and Wendy soon discovered, Northwest Manor had a landline telephone in almost every single room of the building apart from the bedrooms, a necessity given the sheer size of the place: most of them were meant entirely for internal use between the Northwests and their servants, and shouldn't have been able to receive calls from the outside world, but somehow they were picking up calls just as readily as the ones in the master bedroom, the foyer, the withdrawing room, the theatrette and the study.

Worse still, there were phones in the garage as well, and judging from the storm of Appalachian obscenities floating towards them, Ford and McGucket didn't appreciate being interrupted in the middle of their work.

And it was in the midst of all of this, with one or both of the inventors hurtling through the house, Wendy struggling to find a way of sabotaging the phone lines while still distracted by the endless ringing, and Preston Northwest screaming at her to leave his home furnishings and fixtures alone, Mabel took the initiative:

Wrenching her hamster ball open, she scooped up the ivory-handled telephone from the end-table next to the plush antique armchair and answered it in the only way she could have under the circumstances.

"WHAT?" she bellowed – and was immediately startled to hear her voice echoing across the besieged grounds, rerouted from the phone into loudspeakers alongside Shanbel, leaving her with the rather disorienting sensation of hearing her voice emanating from the TV and from outside the mansion.

"You are live and on the air, Mabel!" the clone news anchor guffawed. "No swearing, please, this is a family-friendly program!"

"You said you wanted to talk to me, so go ahead: what did you want me to hear? What was _so_ important that you had to drive us half-insane just to get us to hear it?"

"Just trying to get you to see sense, really. You know you can't win this siege: you're going to run out of supplies eventually. Your food's gonna spoil, the water will be cut off, your serum's going to run out, and that precious on-site generator is gonna break down sooner or later. Even all those cars down in the garage aren't going to serve up enough spare parts to keep Old Man McGucket's inventions coming. Isn't that right, McGucket?"

There was a strangled gasp from the doorway. As expected, Old Man McGucket was standing there, staring in horror at the TV even as everyone in the room tried to figure out how Shanbel had known he was there.

"Holy hootenanny," he muttered, "Is anyone else seein' this, or am I high on paint fumes again?"

Shanbel ignored him. "Why don't you just give yourself up, Mabel? You know you'll never last long enough to make a cure… and if you're thinking you can just use McGucket's home defences to blast your way out, that's not gonna work as long as they're set to non-lethal levels; there are even more of us out here than you think, and we recover _quickly_. I mean, if you were willing to kill some of us to put the finishing touches on your escape plan, it might work, but we all know you and Ford aren't gonna pull the trigger on any of us – not while you still think you can save everyone in town. _And,"_ she added, "You don't want to risk killing Dipper, Soos, or Stan – because how would you tell them apart from all the other Mabels out here?"

She allowed them a few seconds to digest this.

"And that's why the Queen wants to know why you're dragging this out for so long, Mabel. You know you're never going to be reunited the friends and family members we've already claimed, and you don't want to see us infesting the few you have left – too painful, of course. So Why not just step through those doors and join us? Hand yourself over right now, and we'll give your friends a sporting chance to create a cure while we spread to the rest of the world. If Ford and McGucket can't get their prototype up and running before we reach the East Coast, then we'll just have to circle around and assimilate them as well. I'd say that's _more _than fair, don't you?"

There was a chorus of agreements from the clone army amassing outside.

"You know what?" Mabel snapped. "The Queen wants to know why I'm not handing myself over, fair enough; she can't read my mind, just my memories. So why doesn't she just ask?"

"She is," said Shanbel, without missing a beat. "Through us. And if you don't feel like answering us, just hang up and say it out loud: she'll hear you." That malicious phosphorescent grin again. "After all, she's inside you."

"No! If the high and mighty Queen wants answers, she'll have to ask them herself! No more proxies, no speaking for her – I want to speak to the Queen!"

This time, Shanbel's grin threatened to decapitate her. "You want to speak to her _in person?"_ she giggled.

"Yes!"

"You actually want to receive her unfiltered speech, no spin, no middlemen?"

"Did I stutter? Yes! I want to talk to talk to the boss."

There was silence for a few seconds, as if something inside the Mabels was slowly processing this response. Then the camera slowly panned across to the surrounding army of Mabels, swiftly joined by Shanbel: as one, a group of perhaps fifty of them turned to face the camera, and bowed their heads as if in reverence…

…but when they looked up and opened their eyes, _something else _was looking back at her.

"YOU WISHED TO SPEAK WITH ME, SWEET MABEL," they proclaimed in perfect unison, voices echoing across the room and thundering through the walls. "THIS IS AN HONOUR THAT FEW HAVE ENJOYED IN THE LAST TWELVE MILLENNIA OF MY FAMILY LINE... BUT I WILL MAKE AN EXCEPTION FOR YOU. BY ALL MEANS, SPEAK: WHAT IS IT THAT YOU WISH TO SAY?"

Wendy bogged for a moment. "We're actually talking to the Forger Wasp Queen right now?" she whispered.

"AH-AH-AH," the crowd chided gently. "_MABEL_ IS TALKING TO ME, WENDY. YOUR TIME TO COMMUNE WITH THE HIVE WILL COME IN DUE TIME, AND IN FAR LESS SPECTACULAR FASHION. FOR NOW, THIS IS ALL ABOUT MY HOST'S CONCERNS, AND AS A RESPONSIBLE INHABITANT, I AM BOUND TO ADDRESS THEM."

"You want to know why I'm not accepting your offer," demanded Mabel. "Right?"

"I WOULD HAVE THOUGHT IT'D BE THE BEST OPTION FOR YOU: WENDY, PACIFICA, FORD, MCGUCKET, MR AND MRS NORTHWEST WILL BE FREE FOR AT LEAST TWO WEEKS, AND YOU'LL HAVE A CHANCE TO WIN THE DAY. AS MY CHILD SAID, MORE THAN FAIR."

"There's no way you're actually going to let that happen, though. The moment I hand myself over, you'll just kick the door down and infest everyone in the mansion!"

"AND WHY WOULD WE DO THAT?"

"Because you're not stupid enough to let Ford and McGucket keep working on a cure."

"OH MABEL, MY SWEET. YOU'RE STILL SO ADORABLY NAÏVE, EVEN AFTER EVERYTHING YOU'VE SEEN AND DONE. YOU ACTUALLY BELIEVE THOSE TWO STAND A CHANCE OF COMPLETING A CURE WITHIN THE TIME."

"And why wouldn't they? They're the smartest people I've ever met!"

"EVEN GENIUS HAS LIMITS… ESPECIALLY THE ONES WE'VE ESTABLISHED."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"THE SIMPLE FACT IS THAT YOUR DEAR GRUNKLE AND HIS DEAREST FRIEND WILL LOSE THIS WAGER. THEIR PROTOTYPES WILL FAIL, THEIR SIMULATIONS WILL ALL POINT TOWARDS DISASTER, AND EVEN IF THEY DO COME UP WITH A WORKING PROTOTYPE, THEY'LL NEVER FIND A WAY OF MASS-PRODUCING IT OR DISTRIBUTING IT WITHIN THE TIME LIMIT."

The Queen smiled with several dozen gleaming sets of teeth. "BASICALLY, MABEL, YOU'VE ALREADY LOST."

Mabel was about to answer back when Preston – now dressed in the thickest pair of gloves he owned – suddenly darted forward and snatched the phone out of her hands, taking great care not to actually make skin contact in the process. "Uh, let's not be hasty here," he blurted anxiously. "I'm sure we can come to some arrangement. I mean, surely you'd be prepared to allow those of us willing to leave a suitable head-start or-"

"AH, MR NORTHWEST. KINDLY PUT MY HOST BACK ON THE PHONE. THERE WILL BE NO NEGOTIATION."

"But-"

"YOU BELONG TO US. YOU SHALL BE LIKE US."

There was a pause, and then the Queen laughed through several dozen mouths.

"I'VE ALWAYS WANTED TO SAY THAT!" she cackled.

* * *

Ford took a deep breath as the noise washed over him, and tried once again to concentrate on his radio receiver.

He'd just about given up on trying to decipher the racket from upstairs, but given that it hadn't included gunfire, doors being battered down or perimeter alarms being tripped, he had to assume that all was well for the time being.

He'd just have to hope that the Northwests had all received their emergency dose by now.

In the meantime, the ethereal radio was coming along nicely: having created his first design for the e-receiver during his early days roaming the multiverse, he'd had to build, repair and rebuild it so many times in the years since then that he could just about cobble the whole thing together in his sleep. By now, it was a simple enough matter to assemble this invention out of whatever scrap metal and old electronics were at hand, and with the cream of the Northwest car collection at his disposal, he at least had quality materials to work with for a change.

As for what it did, the receiver essentially intercepted transmissions from a very specific broadcasting frequency – most commonly used by dimensional travellers signalling their home universes, though it could be used for specialized modes of communication within worlds. During his journey between realities, he'd made use of receivers it to keep ahead of the bounty hunters and bloodhounds who'd been following him through the multiverse, most of whom kept in touch with their clients and teams via the ethereal wavelength; often, the ethereal radio had been his only warning of anyone who might be interested in claiming the bounty. Right now, though, it was essentially useless: with Bill Cipher dead, there weren't too many drifters interested in visiting this dimension – with the possible exception of the Forger Wasps.

Right now, he was only doing this because it required the least amount of thought and effort: much like a soldier breaking down a rifle and reassembling it, it was ingrained routine by now. He could do it blindfolded if he wanted to – all he needed was to scoop up the components from Fiddleford's pile of rare car parts and dissected smartphones, and the job was already half-over.

He wasn't expecting it to actually receive anything when he plugged in the final battery… but somehow, it did.

"_Come in… Grey…"_

Ford blinked, certain he'd misheard.

More than anything else, the voice sounded like Mabel's, yet multiplied into a chorus and underscored with a subtle alien reverb. He absently tweaked a few dials, half-expecting the signal to be a misinterpreted burst of white noise and nothing more. But against all expectations, the voice sounded yet again, clearer than ever before:

"…_I have their attention now. Their movements have been diverted. Our ace in the hole is progressing: I can feel our new drone's thoughts, and I'm sure it can feel ours in turn. Compelling this host to join us will not be difficult."_

And on the other side of the frequency, a voice whispered, _"Good, good. What-?"_

There was a burst of static, and then the Mabel-like chorus of voices continued: _"…trying to stymie his assimilation, but his success is limited. His serum is failing as we intended. He will be one of us soon."_

"_Excellent…" _More static. "…_maintain telepathic… keep me informed of..."_

"…_your client, this William Yard VIII will-"_

"_You didn't hear his name, let's make that abundantly clear, and I didn't mention it…"_

The next ten seconds of conversation were lost amidst white noise, but eventually the Mabel-like voice broke through: _"…destroy his serum? It would make this much faster."_

"_I don't directly interfere in operations. The Squad has rules, remember?"_

"_Oh yes, I remember, Mr Nemo Me Impune Whatever. Vengeance has rules. Or perhaps you're just afraid that you'll be assimilated too, if you get too close. Oh, the things I could do with dimensional travel…"_

"_Behave yourself…" _And still more static._ "I'm off the menu, no matter what you think. Grey out."_

The transmission lapsed back into nothingness, leaving Ford staring in astonishment at the now-inactive radio. He knew he should go back to tinkering and tell Fiddleford this when he finally returned to the garage, but suddenly sit was very hard to focus on common sense: his mind was racing, assembling the pieces of some hopelessly convoluted jigsaw puzzle almost on instinct, because the clues were almost too obvious to be ignored.

The Mabel-like voice could only be the Forger Wasp Queen, communicating telepathically with someone beyond the hive… someone who'd have an occasion to use the ethereal wavelengths more commonly used in interdimensional communications.

And more importantly, someone the Queen had called "Nemo Me Impune Whatever."

Or, as it was more completely known, _Nemo Me Impune Lacessit._

It _could_ just be a reference to an Edgar Allen Poe story, or perhaps the Order of the Thistle or the Stuart Dynasty… but there was too much additional evidence to support the _other_ most likely conclusion.

From the very beginning of this escapade, Ford had found himself instinctively noticing familiar details, tiny snippets of information he'd seen during his rambling journey across the multiverse now brought screaming back into the present; he thought he'd put them all to rest with the discovery of the Forger Wasps, but now it seemed there was one more recognizable detail on display.

The mystery man, this "Grey" character, had mentioned a Squad – a squad for hire, by the sounds of things. _Vengeance has rules,_ the Queen had said.

Could the Retribution Squad be involved in this as well? A crisis such as this wouldn't be entirely outside their capabilities, and Grey's refusal to show himself fit with their modus operandi.

And that name, William Yard the 8th immediately raised hairs on the back of Ford's neck: it was so obviously an alias that it was almost insulting, as if someone wanted to make onlookers guess at his real name. But why did it sound so familiar? And why had this Mr Yard – whoever he was – hired the Retribution Squad? Why was he seeking vengeance against Mabel, if that was who he had targeted?

Then, something else occurred to Ford – the words "I have their attention now" drifting in and out of his mind, slowly forming a connection with those troublesome noises from upstairs.

Suddenly, he was in motion, hoping and praying that he wasn't too late.

* * *

"What do you want?" Mabel all but screamed. "Why are you doing any of this? What's it all for?"

The Queen grinned mockingly with fifty separate mouths. "WHAT IS _ANYTHING_ FOR, MABEL?"

"Just answer the question!"

"SURVIVAL. MULTIPLICATION. PROPAGATION. SUPREMACY. ALL LIFE EXISTS TO ENSURE ITS IMMORTALITY THROUGH ONE MEANS OR ANOTHER. MY KIND ARE NO EXCEPTION: WE STRIVE TO ENSURE THE SURVIVAL OF OUR FAMILIES AND THE SURVIVAL OF OUR HOSTS, TO SPREAD OUR SPECIES FAR AND WIDE ACROSS THE COSMOS, UNTIL EXTINCTION IS IMPOSSIBLE."

"That's _it?"_

"THAT IS ALL THERE IS. LIFE IS VERY SIMPLE THAT WAY. ONLY WHEN THERE ARE NO OTHER COMPETING SAPIENTS IN EXISTENCE AND WE ARE THE ONLY SENTIENCE THAT REMAINS WILL ALL THREATS TO OUR CONTINUED SUPREMACY BE ERASED. ONLY THEN CAN WE REST FROM OUR LABOURS… UNTIL SUCH TIME AS NEW LIFE EVOLVES TO THREATEN US, WHEREUPON THE WAR OF SUPREMACY CAN BEGIN AGAIN."

"But-"

"IN TIME, YOU WILL LEARN HOW WE CAN ENSURE YOUR LONGEVITY AS WELL… BUT I THINK WE'VE KEPT YOU BUSY LONG ENOUGH. THIS CONVERSATION IS OVER…"

And with that, the crowd of Mabels bowed their head once more, and when they looked up again, the Queen was gone from their eyes. "That concludes the Queen's speech," said Shanbel, grinning cheerily. "We now return you to your previously scheduled programming. Good night!"

A moment later, _Ducktective _was back on in force, leaving Mabel, Wendy, McGucket, Preston and Priscilla staring blankly at the TV screen in near-perfect silence. For twelve nerve-wracking seconds, they remained frozen in horror and bemusement, unable to do much more than stare.

Then, Grunkle Ford burst in, wide-eyed and white with shock.

"They're distracting us!" he blurted. "I just got a message on my ethereal radio and the Forger Wasps are planning to…" He paused, suddenly noticing the shell-shocked stares. "What's everyone staring at?"

Trembling, Mabel gave Ford a hasty update on everything that had happened since he'd retreated back into the garage, including the gist of their conversation with the Forger-Wasp Queen. As she did so, she couldn't help noticing that there was something different about him all of a sudden: in his ascent from the garage, a few strands of hair had slipped free from the bandanna under his helmet, and Mabel could clearly see that his usual iron-grey tone had turned a brown and glossy. Looking closer, she saw that his face had changed as well, for the lines and wrinkles that had once dotted it were gone, leaving his features smoother, healthier, and somehow… younger.

Somehow, in the last few hours, Grunkle Ford had regressed from the brink of sixty to the cusp of forty. Mabel had a good idea of what this meant, but her mind rejected it out of hand; there had to be another explanation for this, something that didn't involve them suffering even more bad luck than ever before.

Meanwhile, Ford's face sagged in dismay. "Then I'm too late," he sighed. "Whatever they were trying to distract you from has probably already happened." He thought for a moment, and suddenly brightened. "But you actually made contact with the Queen herself! This is unprecedented, Mabel: eons can pass without a Forger Wasp Queen assuming direct control of her children for _any_ reason, much less speech; normally, she has them so indoctrinated with neural bonds, she scarcely bothers!"

"I kinda got that, Grunkle Ford," said Mabel, unable to keep the irritation out of her voice. "But what does that mean for us?"

"It means that whatever she was trying to distract us from, it had to be important. I learned a lot from the radio broadcast, but I still don't know what…" He trailed off, eyes widening. "Fiddleford, have you told them about the serum problem?"

"No, I was…" And now it was McGucket's turn to look horrified. "Distracted," he finished limply.

"Okay, um… alright, everyone, we're in trouble: long story short, the Forger Wasps have found a way to reduce the serum's effectiveness. If you've been infested long enough, they'll be able to burn it out of your system… as I've discovered."

"You mean, you're… you're still being converted?" Mabel gasped.

"I'm afraid so. And that's why everyone who wasn't sure if they'd been in contact with a Mabel clone or not should receive another dose of serum immediately; it might not be enough to counteract the infestation as it once did, but it'll at least buy us some time. Now, I can see we've got the Northwest parents on hand, but where's Pacifica?"

Mabel opened her mouth to reply… and then an awful realization struck her head-on, leaving her paralysed in fear and shock: she'd been listening very carefully when Pacifica had confessed to her encounter with the converted Dipper and her infection, but she assumed that Ford's serum would be enough to keep her safe. Now, though…

"I'll get her," she said quietly.

And before anyone could stop her, she was off and rolling as fast as her hamster ball could carry her: she hit the grand staircase at high speed, rolling _up_ it at a pace that would have been impossible had she not been travelling in one of Ford's inventions, before finally bouncing to a stop on the landing and hurtling down the corridor towards Pacifica's room.

However, while she spun onwards along the hallway like a misfired pinball, she couldn't help noticing the faint scuffmarks on the carpets as she passed, the subtle signs that someone had clomped inelegantly down this corridor not too long ago. Normally, she wouldn't have noticed such a thing, but the Northwests were obsessively neat when it came to their possessions and furnishings, and probably would have had the carpet cleaned as soon as the offending mark had appeared if times were a little less trying. Someone had been standing on the edge of the stairs, and judging from the shoe size, it hadn't been Pacifica; whoever it had been, there was no sign of where they'd gone, for the scuffmarks faded within a few steps – almost as if the owner of those shoes had simply faded away into nothingness.

But one thing was certain from the position of those shoes: someone had been here on the landing, facing the distant sitting room.

Watching.

That could wait until later, though: for now, all that mattered was making sure that Pacifica was okay and she hadn't made another terrible mistake by not mentioning her sooner.

Up ahead, the door to Pacifica's bedroom lurched from out of the ostentatious jumble of expensive carpets and portrait-studded walls, and Mabel's heart gave a tiny leap as she realized that the door had been left ajar. Perhaps that meant she was willing to talk now… or perhaps she'd left to go wandering, in which case they were all screwed.

Suddenly all-too aware of the thudding of her own heartbeat, Mabel nudged the door open with the edge of the hamster ball, immediately rewarding her with a long, drawn-out creak of hinges groaning in clichéd protest.

As expected, Pacifica's room was plush and richly decorated, a life-sized dollhouse in all but name; ludicrously thick carpets, lavish wallpaper, oil paintings, hand-carved furniture, and a host of high-tech toys that Mabel couldn't even recognize.

Not as expected was the fact that the lights were out and the curtains were drawn… and since it was now night-time, the room was now plunged into stygian darkness.

"Pacifica?" Mabel whispered. "Are you there?"

There was a pause, and then something in the direction of the en-suite bathroom rustled.

"...I'm… not sure," said a weary voice. It took a moment or so for Mabel to recognize it, for she'd never heard Pacifica sound so exhausted before.

"Um… they're asking for you downstairs, Pacifica. It's kind of important."

"That's nice."

"I'm serious, Pacifica; we need to head down to the sitting room _right now_."

"If you say so…"

There was another rustling, and in the darkness, what Mabel had first believed to be a lump of discarded clothing abruptly stood up and began slowly tottering towards her. It was an awkward march across the gigantic bedroom, and the figure had to stop and catch her breath every now and again, but there was no mistaking the fact that she was getting closer with every step.

"You know what I've always hated about this mansion?" Pacifica asked. "It was the days when mother and father were away on business and the servants had left for the night; it was those hours just before the next shift arrived that were the worst, because it was just me, alone in this giant house in the middle of the night. I'd felt alone before, in crowded rooms and with my parents and with the friends mother paid to be around me, but it was in those hours that I was honestly and truly… isolated. It felt like I'd been buried alive, locked in some mausoleum to starve. I wanted to scream, to bang on the walls, to break a window and run, but I knew what mother and father would do if I tried, if I was weak as they thought I was; so I sat there in my giant bedroom in my giant house and tried not to feel small and insignificant. I was five years old when it started, and the more it happened, the more I thought it was one big test of my worth, a lesson to teach me Northwest dignity. But you know what it taught me?

"It taught me that I was alone, and that I always will be as long as I'm a Northwest. But all that's changed, Mabel: I think I've finally started listening to the real me, the me that knows I don't have to be alone anymore, and it just feels _so good _to listen. I've seen my reflection in the mirror, too. I'm not a Northwest anymore. And…"

The figure took one final step forward, into the light shining in through the doorway, and Mabel let out a strangled gasp of horror as Pacifica's face finally crept into view.

Just as Mabel had feared, her face was drenched in sweat and dyed crimson with feverish heat, just as Soos had been before he'd been converted. But it was worse than that, for despite her sickness, Pacifica was smiling, smiling through her tears as she drew closer, her eyes clouded in delirium.

Her hair, once a vivid blonde, was now chestnut brown.

"…I think I like the new me…"

* * *

A/N: This chapter's soundtrack choice is _I Know Who You Are _by Tyler Bates.

**R DZIMVW BLF, NZYVO...**


	16. From Within

A/N: We're back! Sorry for the lateness, folks: I meant to post this about five days ago, but work and preparing new lodgings for assorted people got in the way. But I'm back, bruised kneecaps and all, fresh from having learned the lesson that travelling downhill on tiled pathways in the pouring rain can be hazardous to your health. Hopefully now that most of the nonsense is out of the way, I can keep the updates regular, but as always, best laid plans of mice and men and monstrosities.

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls is not mine. All I own are my own bruises and headaches. Feel free to furbish me with your theories on where we're heading next in this crazy little story...

* * *

Mabel instinctively backed away, but she hadn't quite gotten used to precision manoeuvres in the hamster ball, least of all while moving backwards; the first thing she did was back directly into the edge of the door, nudging it halfway closed and bouncing her even deeper into the room.

Next thing she knew, Pacifica was lunging for her; she was clearly sick and probably delirious if that unfocussed look in her eyes was any evidence, but she still had just enough strength left in her to move without toppling over. Thinking that she was aiming for her, Mabel rolled quickly out of the way, only to realize that Pacifica was really headed for the door – and before she could stop her, it was already shut. Right now, there was no way of opening it without opening the hamster ball first, and doing so would mean risking a double-infection.

She was trapped.

"There," said Pacifica, giggling almost uncontrollably. "Now we can talk about our friendship in private. And I think it's time I took you up on that hug."

Was it Mabel's imagination, or was she actually beginning to _sound_ like her as well?

"Pacifica, stop," Mabel pleaded. "This isn't you! You don't really want to do this – it's the Forger Wasp in your head taking control! It's making you sick, making you do things you wouldn't do!"

"We – I – We've – I've – We've…"

Pacifica blinked rapidly, eyes shifting from blue to brown and back again. "I've spent my entire life doing what I've been told and not knowing what I really want. I'm not sick, Mabel: I've never felt better in my entire life. If I was sick, I wouldn't know what I'd really want, and right now..." she laughed in a horrifyingly Mabel-like way. "I want this. I want this more than anything I've ever wanted in my entire life."

"But-"

"I'm not sick, Mabel. I'm _free_."

Mabel took in what little of Pacifica's features hadn't changed, and so far, none of them looked particularly healthy: sweat was now cascading down Pacifica's flushed face in steaming, cloying waves; though the room was warm and the air-conditioning was off, she was shivering; her outstretched hands trembled and spasmed near-constantly as she reached for Mabel; her gait was unsteady and often looked on the verge of tripping over something; and the less said of her wild, rolling eyes, the better.

"Oh-_kay,"_ said Mabel, in her most diplomatic tone of voice. "You're not sick. Nobody's gonna argue with you on that, Paz, but I really think you need to lie down for a minute and think this over."

"I've done enough thinking already: it's time I became part of a proper family!"

"Alright, fair enough, but... uh..." Mabel's mind raced. "Don't you want to see Dipper again?"

For a moment, the look of feverish determination on Pacifica's face faded ever-so-slightly, and suddenly she was just a very tired, very confused human once again. "Dipper?" she echoed deliriously. "Isn't Dipper with them? Aren't we going to be together anyway?"

"No, Pacifica: the Forger-Wasps took him and turned him into another clone, and right now they're erasing his mind! Grunkle Ford told me that the people taken by the wasps will all be as good as dead by next week, and that's what's going to happen to Dipper if we don't finish the cure by then! Now please, just sit still for a minute: we've got more doses of serum downstairs, and if we can get you one in time, we'll be able to keep you from getting any worse. Just one dose of serum, and everything will be okay."

_Then again, _she reflected, _the wasps wouldn't be able to toy with her head if she hadn't already gotten a dose of serum and they hadn't learned how to force it out of her body, so maybe I'm overselling this stuff. No, no, FOCUS!_

"Come on, Pacifica," she all but begged. "We're friends: let me help you. Let me get some serum, and you'll be fine."

For a moment, Pacifica looked as if she was considering this. But then her eyes changed colour once again, and suddenly, the awful look of maddened certainty was back on her face. "What's the point?" she asked quietly. "We've already lost. At least I won't be alone."

And once again, she lunged. Once again, Mabel rolled away, only to reverse over one of Pacifica's discarded shoes; suddenly losing her footing inside the hamsterball, she fell backwards, sending the little plastic sphere on a collision course with the nearest corner – where she was immediately penned in by an ottoman and a vanity.

"HELP!" she shouted. "SOMEONE _HELP!_"

But of course, nobody responded: the Northwest Manor was simply too big and too labyrinthine for sounds to travel far enough to reach the others – after all, Dipper and Pacifica had run rampant across the house without meeting anyone or disturbing the guests the last time they'd visited.

Winded, trapped, struggling to get a grip on the inside of the hamsterball again, she was left helpless as Pacifica wedged her in and began forcing the ball's hatchway open. In total, it took less than five seconds for the partially-transformed victim to destroy the airtight casing; a moment later, two boiling-hot hands reached in and seized Mabel by the wrists, dragging her out of the ball and into Pacifica's arms.

"That's it," she whispered, barely lucid. "Just a hug. Just one hug."

And then she was hugging her, drawing her so close that it was impossible not to make contact. One scalding touch, and it was all over. But still, Mabel struggled to free herself from Pacifica's grip, hoping against hope that it wasn't too late to avert disaster, trying valiantly not to actually touch the victim's skin as she forced her away – but without much success. Not only was it impossible to wriggle free of the vicelike grip, Pacifica was only getting stronger as her transformation accelerated and hugging Mabel even tighter to her as the fatal metamorphosis reached its final conclusion.

Before her eyes, the last stubborn blonde streaks in Pacifica's hair faded to brown; the aristocratic cheekbones softened ever-so-slightly; artfully-plucked eyelashes bristled out of shape; the perfect, photogenic mouth turned goofily cute and mischievous. In a matter of seconds, Pacifica Northwest was gone, and Mabel was staring at her own reflection.

There was a pause, as the newly-finished Pabel grinned hideously. "I win," she said smugly.

Mabel had just enough time to absently reflect that she actually looked pretty good in Pacifica's clothes, before the door swung open, revealing a concerned-looking Wendy, with Waddles at her heel.

Pabel didn't even give her a chance to react: she simply snatched up a metal nail file from the shelf, put her head down and charged, clearing the last six feet between them with one almighty leap. To her credit, Wendy wasn't confused for long; she had just enough presence of mind to fling herself to the left just before the double hit her target, so she was at least spared having the new Mabel land right on top of her. Unfortunately, she hadn't quite reckoned on how little space she had to manoeuvre, or how swift the clone really was: as she rocketed past, Pabel lashed the air with her nail file, slicing open Wendy's protective suit at the shoulder and grabbing her fiercely by the wounded arm to slow her descent; as Wendy reeled backwards with a yelp of shock, the doppelganger let go, hit the ground running and vanished down the corridor.

Mabel hurried over, just in time to see Wendy hastily covering a jagged cut across her upper arm.

"Did she touch you?" she asked urgently. "Did she actually managed to get a hand on you once she got through the suit?"

"I can't tell, I couldn't feel anything other than the nail file in my shoulder. But yeah, chances are she probably got me. I don't know if she just touched my arm or if she actually got a finger in this cut, but its bad news either way." Snatching up one of Pacifica's discarded blouses from the floor, Wendy tore the sleeve off it and wrapped it around her arm as an improvised bandage. "Come on," she said breathlessly. "Let's get her before she tries to infest anyone else!"

"But what about you?"

"Who cares? If we don't get that clone, she'll have everyone in the house infested before we get to the serum supply, and then it won't matter how much of it I take. Now come on, let's go! Forget about the hamster ball – just _run!_"

* * *

Unknown to both Wendy and Mabel, Pabel wasn't intending to infest anyone at all – not directly, at any rate.

From the knowledge circulated throughout the hive mind, she knew that trying to attack the defenders while they were all clustering together could easily end in capture, or in valuable hosts suffering unnecessary damage. So, under the guidance of the Queen, she fell back on her next best option: sabotage.

Fiddleford had been very careful to secure the controls to the manor's new defence systems, concealing them well away from windows and exterior doors, wiring them up to multiple power sources and even separating them from the shield generators – actions that other homeowners would have dismissed as ludicrously paranoid, but to Old Man McGucket had just been common sense. For good measure, he'd also refused to tell Preston where he'd hidden them in case the Northwest Patriarch got any _creative_ ideas.

Unfortunately, he'd failed to account for the fact that Pacifica had seen him setting up; at the time, he hadn't thought this would be a problem – after all, why would he? As a fellow member of the Zodiac, he'd automatically assumed that Pacifica was trustworthy, and besides, he hadn't known the full scope of the threat that the Forger-Wasps posed.

And now that Pacifica had been assimilated into the hive mind, her memories had already been greedily dissected for useful information, from the sight of McGucket setting up the control terminals to that faint but distinctive mechanical humming sound from the attic; she'd even heard a little about Preston's highly-expensive security gates.

Now, guided by the whispers of the Queen, Pabel knew exactly where to go.

First port of call was the targeting computers, the remote access terminals used for programming and controlling the turrets, tesla coils and other defence mechanisms arrayed across the manor; hidden in a closet under one of the smaller staircases on the east wing of the manor, the dust here made them perfectly secure from nosy patriarchs and their snobby upper-tier servants. For good measure, McGucket had also padlocked it just to be on the safe side.

Unfortunately, he hadn't counted on Pabel's strength. Inside, she attacked the control systems in a frenzy, smashing terminals, tearing out cables, disembowelling machinery, and generally leaving Fiddleford's hard work quite beyond repair.

On her way out, she happened to run into the butler on one of his many inscrutable errands around the house.

Said butler was in due course, very briefly surprised.

After pummelling him into submission, she'd tied him up with a length of wire, and infested him via as many open wounds as she could inflict in the next ten seconds – just to make sure the newly-implanted larvae would have plenty of food to speed its development. Then she stashed the semi-conscious butler in the closet and went on rampaging, confident that they would have a fully converted member of the hive within minutes.

In the distance, she could already hear the urgent shouts and screams of the defenders as they struggled to find her; by now, Mabel and Wendy had alerted them to her presence, but it would do them little good. Northwest Manor was a vast and spacious location, and Pabel could run faster and longer than any of them; with only six people left among its occupants, they'd never be able to find her in time.

Next port of call was the building's backup generator: by now, her sisters had already cut the power to the mansion, and the only thing keeping the lights on inside Northwest Manor was the top-of-the-line gasoline-fuelled generator down in the basement – though McGucket had at least been smart enough to attach the shield to an independent power source. Once again, all due protection had been provided, especially since Preston's elaborate security door setup couldn't work without power: past the ranks of dusty crates and lesser riches that were the mainstay of the basement's first level, a heavy chainlink fence surrounded the generator, along with a second, electrified fence with a password-locked door.

Pabel tore through both with her bare hands.

It took a grand total of twenty seconds to completely total the backup generator, reducing it to so much pulverized metal and shredded wiring. Once it was done, Pabel stood amidst the wreckage, glorying in the victorious exaltations of the Queen and listening to the low, disappointed-sounding drone of electrical systems winding down.

"Lights out," she whispered with a grin.

* * *

The transition from full power to blackout was nothing short of astonishing.

One minute, Mabel was hurrying along the corridor with Wendy at her side and Waddles tucked under her arm, watching Ford readying his weapons, listening to the surviving Northwests screaming for their butler, and hoping against hope that McGucket could meet up with them before Pabel started zeroing in on stragglers.

The next, everything went pitch-black.

As one, all of Northwest manor was plunged into stygian darkness, leaving the five of them stumbling helplessly through the shadows, crashing into each other, tripping over furniture, walking into walls and generally panicking. Grunkle Ford tried as best as he could to calm them down, but with Pacifica converted, the butler AWOL a clone loose in the house, it was utterly impossible to settle either of the Northwests. Worse still, now that it was close to ten PM at night, the only illumination from outside the windows was from the Mabel army besieging the building, and it wasn't long before the army began extinguishing their own lights – leaving the five of them stumbling around in coffinlike gloom.

And it was at that moment, just as Ford and Wendy were readying flashlights and Preston and Priscilla were readying themselves for a histrionic episode, there was a clatter from somewhere in the darkness ahead. As one, the entire group froze in horror.

"Who's there?" Ford bellowed, drawing a gun.

There was a pause, and then a light appeared from around the corridor, held in the perpetually-bandaged hand of Fiddleford McGucket. "What's going on?" he asked breathlessly as he skidded to a halt.

Ford barely suppressed a sigh of relief, and hastily explained everything that McGucket had missed out on. "From the looks of things, the new clone's just taken out the internal generators," he concluded.

"That's not all: someone's smashed up the controls to the turrets and teslas and ripped up most of the power cables."

"You mean we're completely defenceless?" Preston squawked. "It's bad enough that I can't work the security gates now that the power's out; now you're telling us that your precious defences are useless as well?!"

"Not _all _of them," McGucket corrected. "My shield's still protectin' the mansion."

"What good will _that_ do while we've got a Mabel already inside the house?!"

"Not a lot. On the upside, she won't be getting reinforcements any time soon."

"So there's a chance we can stop her from doing any worse?" asked Mabel.

"Possibly," said Ford, clearly not believing it. "Unfortunately, this is a very big house, and we don't have much time before she goes for…" He took a deep breath, as the awful realization slowly slid home. "The shield generator," he finished. "In which case we should probably go straight for the attic."

"We?" echoed McGucket. "Who's _we,_ Ford? You know you're not supposed to be doing anything strenuous while you're infested. I'll go – it's my machine."

"But you're not wearing a protective suit!"

"Then I'll go," said Wendy.

"Your suit's been torn _and_ you're infested; you're going to have to stay put, just like Ford."

"Oh for heaven's sake, can't we all go?" Preston snapped. "This is _my_ house and I am not travelling through it alone, so I claim veto."

"But this isn't your house anymore. You sold it to me, remember?"

"…god _damn_ it. Look, we'll just have to find the butler and give him a suit; he'll head up to the attic for us and-"

The rest of Preston's demand was lost in a ghostly shriek of laughter from somewhere in the darkness ahead of them; Mabel's flesh immediately rose in goose pimples, recognizing the distinctive laugh of one of the clones issuing from the darkened corridor – and never in her life had she imagined that _her own voice_ would sound so unnerving. As one, Wendy, Ford and McGucket shone their flashlights into the gloom, but saw nothing other than ominous-looking shadows cast by the innumerable statues and antique furniture lining the walls. Then, just as the six of them were starting to wonder if they'd just imagined it, they heard the unearthly cackle again, this time much closer; a moment later, something sprinted past the beam of Wendy's flashlight, almost too fast to be seen clearly. For perhaps ten seconds, the sound of footsteps continued to echo up from the darkness, the sound almost seeming to circle them as it drew ever closer. Then, just as quickly, it drew back from them, suddenly sounding as if it was on the other side of the corridor, then from one of the rooms bordering the hallway, then from one of the chandeliers overhead…

"What's it doing?" Preston whispered frantically.

"It's toying with us," said Wendy, reading her axe. "Trying to get us good and spooked."

"I can see that, but what's this clone doing down here? I thought it'd be upstairs sabotaging the shield generator."

There was a horrified pause.

"What are the chances this thing would actually give up on the shield generator just to come down here and mess with us?" Wendy hissed.

"Round about zero," said Ford.

"Okay then. When was the last time anyone saw the butler?"

By way of a reply, there was another piercing laugh from the darkness, and the newest clone giggled, "You rang, Mr Northwest? Come closer! Let's shake hands and make peace… or if you're really that interested in the shield generator, we can turn this into a game of tag! Don't be scared of the dark, Mr Northwest! Nothing to be scared of out here, just lots and lots of shadows and a million different ways for me to sneak up on you!"

As one, the six of them readied their weapons – or rather, Mabel, Wendy, McGucket and Ford readied their weapons and Mr and Mrs Northwest took cover behind them. But as Mabel readied her grappling hook, she realized that they'd overlooked something rather important.

"There's only one person who can make it to the attic and stop Pabel without getting infested," she said grimly.

Wendy eyed her strangely. "Mabel, what are you – no, _NO!_ Someone grab her before she-"

But Mabel was already running, sprinting out through the darkness with a flashlight of her own at the ready and Waddles still under her arm.

As she ran, it belatedly occurred to her that her grappling hook was still in her pocket, and with her hands full with the flashlight and Waddles, she couldn't properly arm herself… and no sooner had she thought this, the face of Butler!Mabel loomed out of the darkness, her grin hideously exaggerated by the stark glow of her flashlight.

"COVERING FIRE!" bellowed Ford.

A well-aimed stun-bolt lanced out of the darkness, and the monstrous rictus fell away, jittering wildly as Butler!Mabel collapsed to the carpet. Recognizing the opening she'd just been given, Mabel sprinted onwards, not daring to look back: she could already tell from the stun blasts and Mabelish roars of anger from behind her that the new clone was already recovering.

And she _ran_, hurtling down the corridors and tripping over furniture and toppling over decorations and doing everything she could to stay ahead of the clone she thought might be at her heels, moving faster and more relentlessly than ever before: she'd never run this far or this fast without stopping in her entire life, not even when fleeing from Bill in the Fearamid. Of course, it wasn't because the danger was greater or because the stakes were any higher – right now, Mabel graded them as more-or-less equal, except for the fact that the enemy had a vested interest in keeping her alive. No, she ran because she couldn't tell if she was being chased or not, because it was dark, because her imagination was running wild, and because if she arrived too late, the world might very well be doomed and it would be all her fault.

It wasn't easy to navigate the manor in the dark, of course, for she hadn't memorized the layout and the mansion took on a horrifying new aspect without power… but somehow, _somehow_ she made it to the grand staircase, far enough from the gun battle that she could finally recognize that she was no longer being followed.

However they'd done it, Ford, Wendy and McGucket were keeping Butler!Mabel occupied. Lungs straining and muscles aflame, she flung herself along the landing for what felt like miles until she reached the narrow, steep staircase leading to Northwest Manor's attic, and – with some difficulty – managed to work her way up without losing her balance. As she climbed, she listened frantically for any sign of violence from above, hoping against hope that she wasn't too late.

As soon as she reached the top, Mabel set down Waddles as quickly as possible, drew her grappling hook, and launched herself into the murk. No less than a few steps across the highest floor of the mansion, however, she saw the squat, whirring shape of McGucket's shield generator sitting in the middle of the attic amidst a nest of power cables, humming serenely. Against all expectations, it was unharmed.

Mabel sighed in relief…

….and then a familiar voice from above cooed "Lose your dance partner?"

Before she could look up, before she could raise the grappling hook to fire, Pabel was right on top of her, grabbing her by the wrists and forcing her into a mocking tango across the attic. Mabel fought with all her might to escape, biting her arms, kicking her in anything that came within reach, even headbutting her at one point, but Pabel seemed utterly impervious to pain. Indeed, the attacks only seemed to make her all the more amused – until at last, she pointed Mabel's gun-arm squarely at the generator, wove her fingers around the trigger of the grappling hook, and squeezed.

At the last moment, Mabel just managed to shift Pabel's aim ever-so-slightly – not by more than half an inch, but it was enough to send the grapnel soaring harmlessly over the generator and through the side of a large set of stacked crates in the corner of the attic.

_Victory!_

But if Pabel was in any way inconvenienced by this sudden burst of good fortune, she didn't show it. Instead, she just smirked, and suddenly yanked Mabel backwards.

And because Mabel was still holding the grappling hook, the gun and the grapnel went with her – along with anything it was attached to: on the other side of the attic, the stack of crates groaned, wobbled, tilted, and finally came tumbling down…

...right on top of the shield generator.

Mabel could only watch as their last hope of surviving the night unceremoniously collapsed into a heap of scrap metal, one side of it literally squashed like a bug under the overwhelming weight of the boxes. At once, the mechanical humming ceased and was promptly replaced by a low, tortured-sounding groan as what remained of McGucket's machinery began to wind down.

With that, Pabel shoved her to the ground. "I win again," she giggled. "Now, let's see how many friends you have left by the end of the night-"

The grapnel caught her square in the chest, sending her crashing backwards through the attic window; suddenly seized by the thought that she might have accidentally killed Pabel – and by extension Pacifica – Mabel hurried over to see what had become of the clone, but by then, her double had already recovered: two stories below, Pabel was sprinting out through the gardens at high speed, kicking peacocks aside as she thundered across the lawn to freedom.

In desperation, Mabel turned to the crumpled remains of the shield generator, hoping that there might be something still working – enough to repair or at the very least salvage. But as she watched, the last few surviving components of the ex-generator gave a few half-hearted sparks and exploded into useless shrapnel. By the time the staccato pop and crackle of detonating components had ceased, so had the groaning from the emitters.

The shield was down.

* * *

Outside, the Mabel army grinned in perfect unison as they felt the shield flicker out of existence.

They had been waiting patiently for this moment ever since they'd felt the stirrings of their newest sister within the Northwest girl, ever since the Queen's host had sought shelter within the walls of this ivory tower. By now, the hive had deployed over five hundred troops to secure this little siege, not counting the personnel they'd used to shut off all external power sources and search for hidden exits and entrances to the building. The rest was committed to guard the borders of Gravity Falls, preparing for the inevitable expansion into the forests and beyond, and ensuring that any unwanted visitors were quickly captured and assimilated before they became a problem.

Frankly, five hundred were all they needed.

They waited a moment longer, just to make sure that the last vestiges of the shield had well and truly faded away, just to let the defenders realize the full extent of their failure (if only because the Queen's mysterious backer had suggested it).

Then, they surged forward, swarming over the gate like ants, scaling the sheer wall with all the strength and dexterity their enhanced physiology offered. The mansion itself was next: several outriders from the horde made colossal leaps through first-story windows, randomizing the spread of their attack, while dozens more scuttled up the walls and invaded through the second story and the chimney; almost a hundred more circled the building to cut off any attempts to escape through the gardens, but the main bulk of the army charge straight for the front door, hammering off its hinges with a battering ram comprised entirely of giggling, shrieking, impervious host-bodies.

Soon, Mabel would be theirs again.

* * *

"Move! MOVE!"

"Alright, Mr Infallible, _where?!"_

"The garage, you moron, where else? You parked our car there, right?"

"I don't know! The butler parked it for me, and he's currently being used as a finger puppet by the Forger Wasps! Can't we just stop and take refuge in the panic room?"

"Come on, Preston, that's three corridors behind us, and the Mabels will be all over it by now – don't you know your own house?"

"Aha! I thought it was McGucket's house; now it's suddenly mine again."

"SHUT UP AND RUN!"

Utter chaos reigned within Northwest manor: Mabels were pouring in through every window and door in the building, flooding the corridors with their wide, manic grins and frenzied, grasping hands. With no defences left in the building and no weapons capable of holding off an entire horde of clones, the six of them had been forced to beat a very hasty retreat; on the upside, Mabel had been able to meet up with them fairly quickly, but that was the only plus to an ever-worsening situation.

The lights were still out: quite apart from the fact that it was terrifyingly easy for them to lose their way in the dark, there was no way of knowing precisely just how many of the clones there were in the building, or even how many were actually chasing them; that would mean actually pointing their flashlights in their direction – or worse yet, turning around in mid-sprint. However, the Mabels had their own powerful lights, and all too often, the survivors were reduced to scampering like rabbits out of the searchlights for fear that the dopplegangers would be ready to intercept anyone who stood still for too long.

Worse still, the Mabels were nothing short of lethal at close range: less than a minute after they first arrived, Priscilla Northwest had been brought screaming to the ground by an outrider Mabel and dogpiled by the rest of the army. With no way of rescuing her, they'd been forced to flee onwards down the corridor – hoping that the horde wouldn't catch up with them before they reached the safety of the garage.

So here they were, once again lost and running for their lives, Mabel jogging frantically down the near-lightless corridors with Waddles galloping along beside her and a whole host of her friends and allies at her back – and a few hundred Forger Wasp-infested clones hot on their heels.

"Just keep goin'," McGucket panted. "Once we're inside, you'll have the fastest sports cars in the Northwest stable to escape in!"

In spite of the situation, Ford actually managed to look askance at the old inventor. "What's wrong with the Stanmobile?"

"Well, no offence, but I'm pretty sure she's been pushed well over the limit today already – _and_ she's a pretty old car, too, so-"

There was a muffled thud from somewhere around floor level, and suddenly McGucket went silent.

"Fiddleford? FIDDLEFORD?!"

No response.

Some distance behind them, a cluster of Mabels had gathered around a struggling figure and were in the midst of pinning it to the ground, their cackling audible even over the brutal thuds and twangs of a weaponized banjo. Ford let out a yell of horror and tried to turn around, clearly hoping to rescue McGucket before it was too late, but Wendy grabbed him by the collar and dragged him onwards, forcing him to look away, his protests drowned out by the growing chorus of terrified expletives from Preston.

And then, just as Mabel thought the situation couldn't get any worse, another doppelganger had dived in from the side and grabbed Waddles by the flanks; before Mabel could stop her, the clone had tucked the squealing pig under her arm and charge off down another corridor. And though she knew that she was being baited, even though she knew that the Forger Wasps were only doing this to make her follow on so they could capture her (after all, it wasn't as if they could convert pigs, right?), even though she knew the garage was just around the corner….

...she stopped, throat tightening with horror and grief as she tried vainly to figure out what to do next.

Next thing she knew, someone had grabbed her – but it wasn't one of the clones.

It was Preston Northwest, hauling her backwards by the scruff of her neck into the nearest spotlight; and judging by the blade he was pressing to her throat, he wasn't out to rescue her.

As one, the army of Mabels froze in mid-charge, their faces turning slack and expressionless in near-perfect unison.

"ALRIGHT!" Preston barked. "All of you stay where you are, or your Queen dies along with Mabel! I warn you, I have a letter opener and I'm not afraid to use it!"

Behind them, Ford groaned in exasperation. "Oh, you _idiot. _Didn't I tell you this wouldn't work? Do you think you'll actually get away with so much as bruising the Queen's host? For god's sake, why didn't you just take a flying leap out the nearest window if you wanted to kill yourself so badly?"

"You said that killing the host wouldn't work, you never said anything about taking hostages, Pines. Besides, look at them – they're frozen! I've done what you couldn't: I've found their one real weakness! I now have a bargaining position, and I can ask for anything I want!"

"A _bargaining position?! _This isn't Washington, you chinless streak of piss! You're not dealing with something that you can intimidate or blackmail! The only thing you can offer them is more hosts, and right now, you don't have the resources or the distance to make the deal work! For crying out loud, do you honestly think you can stick your hand in a wasp nest without getting stung? I mean, even _you_ should at least have some idea of what eusocial insects do when their hives are threatened!"

"Shut up, I'm negotiating!"

"Should I knock him out?" Wendy asked Ford in a low whisper.

"Why bother? In a few seconds, it won't even matter; just get ready to start running again."

Meanwhile, Preston was still haranguing the hive: "Now that I have your attention, I expect your immediate obedience from here on: I have a long list of demands, and if they are not met, I will slit Mabel's throat before you can even respond. By the time any of you get your act together, I'll have killed every last one of you long before you select a new Queen. Now, there's no reason we can't work together: you can have one half of the world, and I can have the other; abide by my terms, and your Queen will remain unharmed. If not-"

And before Ford could stop him, Preston Northwest reached down and nicked Mabel's neck with the letter opener. The wound was little more than a paper cut, but it hurt – and judging by the sudden warmth creeping along her throat, it was deep enough to draw a few tiny droplets of blood.

"See what happens? I hope I don't need to inflict any permanent damage for you to get the message. Now, if you'll… all… just…"

He trailed off, suddenly realizing that the Mabels surrounding them were no longer looking on in blank shock: instead, they were now staring at him with something that looked uncannily like hatred… and as their anger grew, their eyes began to glow an incandescent shade of red.

"Um… what are they doing?"

"You've just triggered their swarming instinct," said Ford. "Nice knowing you."

For a few heart-stopping seconds, five hundred pairs of searing ruby eyes glared back at Preston from the stygian darkness. Then, as one, they flung themselves at him. In situations like this, words like "launched," "lunged," "pounced," "swarmed" or "leapt" couldn't do the situation justice: instead, the clone horde _tsunami-d_ down the corridor towards Preston, sweeping through the hallway like a living tidal wave of blazing red eyes, screaming mouths and hands outstretched like talons. Mabel had just enough time to elbow Preston in the groin and fling herself out of the way before the Forger Wasps ploughed into him, sweeping the Northwest patriarch off his feet and dragging him to the ground – where he promptly vanished under a colossal mass of clones. It was hard to see what they were doing, but they had to be infesting him, and judging by the shrieks of pain and the flat, un-movie-like thud of fists against flesh, they weren't being gentle about it in the slightest.

Whatever was going on in there, though, Mabel knew that now wasn't the time to indulge her curiosity; taking to her heels, she resumed her mad sprint down the corridor with Ford and Wendy down her side. Ahead, the garage door passed over them, the journey pausing for a moment as Ford locked and barricaded it shut behind them as best as he could – even partially welding it shut with a handheld laser concealed in his coat.

"Right," he panted. "It won't take them long to batter their way through that, but it's brought us some time. Hopefully they haven't found any secret entrances to the garage, otherwise this is going to be a very short trip."

For the next minute, the three of them continued their charge downstairs in total silence, hurrying through the garage until they finally tracked down the improvised workshop McGucket had set up. Less than twenty feet from the lab space, the battered Stanmobile sat in awkward silence where the butler had parked it, looking almost hilariously out of place amidst the limousines and sports cars of Preston's collection.

Ford immediately made straight for the workbenches and began hastily scooping up the few vials of serum he and McGucket had managed to make, ladling them into his pockets five at a time. For good measure, he injected himself at the neck with one.

"I've been exerting myself too much – it's accelerating the process," he muttered by way of explanation, but frankly, Mabel didn't need to be told: she could see it happening before her very eyes.

By now, his wrinkles had long since vanished, the grey was gone from his hair, and Mabel could tell from the slightly loosened cut of his coat that the last of the muscles he'd gained in his years travelling the multiverse had all but melted away. From the looks of things, he was around thirty at best… and even now, even with the serum slowing the rate of conversion, Mabel could almost _see_ Ford getting steadily younger, shedding year after year with every passing minute. Right now, his latest dose looked to be slowing his descent, but not by much: he'd gone from dropping a year every sixty seconds to perhaps a month a minute, but there was no stopping it now. Soon, he'd stop getting younger and start looking more like her; soon, he'd be just another Mabel.

"Come on," he said briskly. "Let's go. Hopefully, we'll have enough fuel to make it to the next port of call."

"Where's that-"

"NO!" Mabel shrieked. "I don't want to hear it! The Queen's listening, remember?"

"We've still got a five minute delay on the Queen's memory-reading, Mabel."

"La-la-la, not listening!"

Wendy sighed. "Is there any reason why we need to take the Stanmobile at all? We've got all these fancy cars around here, and I'm betting they're a lot faster than this old rustbucket."

"For one thing, the only man who'd know where the keys are kept is currently being infested." As Ford paused for breath, there was a thump from upstairs, followed by several dozen perfectly-identical voices crying out in glee. "And for another, we probably don't have enough time to hotwire any of them," he continued hurriedly. "So, let's just get moving, shall we? Everyone into the Stanmobile – _quickly_, if you please?"

As they began piling into the car, however, Wendy hesitated. "How many vials of serum do you have?" she asked quietly.

"Ten. Does it matter?"

"Something tells me you're going to need them a lot more than I will, Ford."

"Wendy, this is no time to play hero! _Get in the car!"_

"This isn't me being a hero, this is me being smart: I didn't just get skin contact from the clones, I got cut open, remember?" She gestured at the hastily-bandaged would on her shoulder. "I took a dose, but it's not enough: the infestation's working a lot faster on me than you, and if you're going to cure this thing, you don't need me around and using up all the serum."

"For crying out loud, we can ration the serum if we have to!"

Without saying a word, Wendy removed her hat, revealing a slowly-expanding halo of brown hair slowly replacing her distinctive red mane.

"I'm already an inch shorter," she said quietly. "It's speeding up as well – I've been doing as much running as you have, remember? If you take me with you, I'll either waste the serum stock or convert in the car. Either way, you'll be as good as dead. I'll try to hold them off as long as I can; just take Mabel, find a new lab, and make the cure."

Ford's face fell. "I'm sorry," he sighed.

"Don't be. This beats the hell out of sitting around waiting to die by conversion. "Now come on, get going! They'll be here any minute."

Still sighing, Ford started the car and began the blood-curdling process of getting it in gear; but even as Mabel fastened her seatbelt, she couldn't help but stare at Wendy, her willowy frame looking shorter and more childish by the minute. She'd seen the transformation before, with Soos, and back then it had been disturbing… but this was slower, more painstakingly detailed, and somehow even more unearthly to witness in action: to see Wendy being slowly but inexorably diminished, her athletic frame shrinking away, her clothes growing baggy and ill-fitting, the look of confident determination on her face softening into Mabel's ecstatic grin… it looked wrong – horribly, _horribly _wrong.

And suddenly, Mabel almost couldn't sit still for the sense of guilt and horror she felt – at everything she'd done, everything she'd been duped into doing. Everyone had told her time and again that it hadn't been her fault, but she never believed it for long; how could she, when the monsters had _her_ face? How could she, when she'd lost so many friends and relatives already because she'd been so easily fooled? How could she, when she was about to lose another?

"Wendy," she began. "I-"

"Just _go! _If all this works out, we'll see each other again soon. If not…" In spite of herself, Wendy smiled. "Well, I guess I'll see you again anyway, won't I? So I won't say goodbye. Just… good luck."

And then Ford put pedal to the metal, sending the Stanmobile hurtling across the garage, down the ramp and off towards one of the many hidden exits; behind them, Wendy waved goodbye, slowly receding into the distance until she vanished behind a pillar.

Ford was trying to tell Mabel something important, or maybe something apologetic – it was hard to tell through the pounding in her head. But then, even if she could have heard him, it wouldn't have made much sense: in that moment, Mabel's mind was blank except for five words, repeated over and over again like a mantra:

_And then there were two…_

* * *

A/N: Up next… care to guess?

This chapter's soundtrack is _Ambush Attack, _by Nobuo Uematsu.

Now for the code!

**Xzm'g blf hvv rg'h uzi gll ozgv?  
Rg'h grnv gl gfim zmw uzxv blfi uzgv  
Blfi hgivmtgs rh hkvmg, blfi wzb rh wlmv  
Hl qfhg zwnrg dv'ev zoo yfg dlm  
**


	17. And Then There Were Two

A/N: Aargh! Had to chainsaw this chapter again, folks: pacing issues once more demanded that I trim the chapter and use the material for a start to the next.

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter! Read, review and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls is not mine... as I've said before :)

* * *

Unfortunately, McGucket's survey of the car proved all too accurate.

The engine started making tortured noises less than ten minutes into the journey, and by the time they'd finished weaving through the maze of parked cars and dead ends, they'd slowed to a half-hearted crawl along the road. By the time they'd reached the outskirts of Gravity Falls, they were bleeding oil. In the end, the Stanmobile finally came to a halt perhaps a hundred yards from the edge of the forest, its mangled wheels shuddering to a stop with a jolt that sent thick plumes of smoke billowing from under the hood.

"We walk from here," said Ford grimly.

"_Walk?"_ Mabel echoed. "Where?"

"Anywhere they haven't reached yet, anywhere that's secure enough for you to shelter in, anywhere the Mabels don't already know about thanks to my memories – take your pick. I need to get you to safety long enough to figure out what to do next, and right now, the woods are the only place left in this town that could qualify."

"What about you?"

Ford sighed, readied the syringe gun and injected himself at the neck. It was his fourth injection in the last half-hour, but with all the exertion and stress he was under, the serum clearly wasn't doing him any good: even in the faint glow provided by their flashlights, his face looked younger than ever – down to his early thirties if Mabel was any judge.

"Well," he said. "I'm down to my last six vials of serum, and I have a sneaking suspicion that they're actually losing their potency with every dose I take, so I probably don't have long before it's all over for me. Before then, though, I have to make sure you're ready for what comes next: there's things you have to know about this situation, things that could save your life and save all of us. Most of this is hot off the presses, as Stanley would no doubt put it, and I'm not sure just how valid it is… but it's all we've got."

"But you're supposed to come up with a cure for all this! You and McGucket were supposed to-"

"Save the day? That's not going to work out anymore, Mabel: the Queen knew what she was doing when she set out to take over this town. She's been systematically shutting down everything we could have used to save the day, and now that I've been cut off from the best of my tools and the lion's share of the serum supplies, there's no way I'll be able to formulate a working cure. We can't target the Forger Wasps anymore: we need to target their source – their benefactor."

He took a deep breath, and shuddered as a new and unpleasant sensation rippled through him. "I'm sorry, Mabel, but now it's up to you."

In that moment, Mabel's heart felt like it had been filled with lead: by now, her confidence was so low it might as well have been scraping bits of gum off the floor as it dragged past, and with very good reason; she'd caused this epidemic to begin with, she'd let Dabel trick her into spreading the plague across town, and she'd failed to stop Pabel from ruining their defences. All in all, it was hard to imagine how she could possibly save the day at this point unless the plan was for her to join forces with the Forger Wasps and screw up everything for _them_ as well. The idea was so ridiculous she could have laughed, but of course, she couldn't, not with the crushing dark of night all around her and the sounds of shrieking laughter in the distance.

(Was it her imagination, or was that getting closer?)

So instead, she just asked "How?"

"I'll explain as much as I can in the time I've got left, but if we're going stay safe, we'll have to keep moving while we talk: we need to stay ahead of the horde. Be sure to listen carefully, though – I'm not going to get many opportunities to repeat myself." A mad, joyless smile glanced off his face. "I'm not going to get many opportunities to _be_ myself if this goes wrong," he added, chuckling mirthlessly. "Come on, let's go."

Mabel didn't know how to respond to this except through mute panic, so she simply allowed Ford to lead her out of the car and up the hill towards the gaping mouth of the forest. And from here, in this light, it really did look like a set of colossal jaws, the straight-trunked redwoods looking uncannily like needle-sharp teeth in a ravenous mouth, ready and waiting to devour them.

They were walking slowly and steadily at first, but as the distance sound of shrieked giggles echoed ever closer, they broke into a swift jog up the incline. Mabel didn't need to hold his hand to keep up with him, somehow managing to keep pace with his long strides even as they lurched up the hill; either she was so supercharged with adrenaline that she was somehow keeping pace with the increasingly rejuvenated Grunkle Ford… or Ford was getting slower.

At this point, Mabel didn't want to make guesses, but it certainly seemed as if guess number 2 was the safer bet. She couldn't bring herself to ask about it though, not with those sounds growing ever-closer, so she remained quiet until the first few trees drifted past them and the lights of Gravity Falls finally began to fade behind them.

Then, once the sounds were beginning to recede into the distance again, she asked, "Look, why can't I just buy some time for you? You're the expert on this whole 'cure for the common Mabel' stuff, so why don't I get their attention and lead them as far away from you as possible? I mean, they're not going to hurt me while I'm carrying their Queen around, right? While I'm getting locked up, you make it to the bunker, calm down, make some more serum, and come up with a cure."

"No."

"Come on, Grunkle Ford-"

"I'm serious, Mabel, getting captured by the Mabels is not an option except as an absolute last-resort, and we are not that desperate right now."

"Not desperate?! We've lost our only base, we're running through the woods at midnight, you're getting sicker by the minute, and we're probably the only people in Gravity Falls who haven't been infested! How is this not desperate?!"

"Mabel, they'll probably be able to hear us if we shout."

"I…" Mabel took a deep breath and very deliberately lowered her voice. "You've told me that giving myself up to the Forger Wasps wasn't an option before, but you said you couldn't tell me exactly what they'd do to me; so why should I be so afraid of what they'd do to me? What's so terrible about what they might do to me if they can't risk _killing _me?"

Ford took a deep breath. "They need you mind intact and functioning so the Queen can continue to feed off it, and they need your body more or less present so the Queen can use it as a vessel. Other than that, they can afford to take serious liberties with your biology if it means keeping you under their control. Remember, they have the memories of everyone they've assimilated, and Fiddleford's technical knowledge could be _horribly _misused in order to restrain you, to say nothing of all the medical know-how gleaned from doctors, surgeons, nurses and other-"

"Look, just give me some examples, okay? What's the worst they could realistically do to me?"

"Well, during my travels across the multiverse, I've heard tell of Royal Hosts being imprisoned in virtual reality to prevent them from escaping; there've been first-hand accounts of biological stasis, hibernation units, cryosleep, even medical comas; I've actually seen one or two hosts that have actually been moulded to walls and floors to stop them from running off. And…"

He bit his lip, a worryingly Mabel-like gesture. "There was one instance in which a Queen used the biotechnology of her dimension to regress her host all the way back to infancy; every fifteen years, they'd give him another shot of rejuvenating elixirs and shrink him back down to a baby, just so they wouldn't have to deal with the hassle of constant escape attempts. By the time I met him, the poor guy was so traumatized by the process that he'd almost completely forgotten his life prior to regression – he had an adult intellect, but that was about it. And if the serum had been a little less physically debilitating, his jailers wouldn't have allowed him the extra ten years to adjust; they'd have just zapped him back to infancy every time he turned five."

"Something tells me that we don't have the technology to make people into babies, Grunkle Ford."

"No, but if there's no other way to keep you from escaping, the Queen might be willing to have your legs amputated."

Mabel stopped dead in her tracks. "_What,"_ she said flatly.

"This is why I didn't want to tell you about this, Mabel. But that's the truth: there was one host who was so determined to escape captivity, a Forger Wasp Queen ordered her drones to cut the man's legs off. And when that didn't stop him, she did the same for his arms… and just to be on the safe side, she blinded him, too. This is why you can't afford to be captured, Mabel: they need your brain working and your body more-or-less intact – and that's all."

"Oh."

There was a pause, as Mabel hastily took to her heels again after the swiftly-retreating Ford. "And there's another thing," he continued. "The bunker is off the table as well: you've been there before, so they know all the security measures; they'd be on me before I'd be able to upgrade the defences – assuming they haven't already posted sentries there."

"Then why bother doing anything? If the Queen knows everything we know, then what's the point in even trying?"

"She _doesn't_ know everything, though: she can't read your thoughts. She knows your personality, your emotions and your memories, but she doesn't know what you're thinking, and that gives you the advantage – and that's why you have to hear everything I've learned so far, before it's too late. _You _have the opportunity to set things right, Mabel, and it's important that you know what you're really up against…"

* * *

Some distance away, the Grey Professional watched with amusement.

It was close to the end, now, so close he could almost taste it. He could taste Mabel's tears in the air, savour the rich smell of grief and defeat wafting through the night sky; Ford would soon be gone and the girl would soon be alone with only her guilt to keep her company… up until the Forger Wasps finally caught up with her. Yes, the game was almost over, and soon he would have the chance to gloat over his victory. The client would have the opportunity to exalt along with him, and Mabel would finally understand the full extent of her failure – and the eternal torment that awaited her once their game was done.

He dearly wanted to spy on the next few minutes of Mabel's ongoing breakdown, he truly did… but as always, there were rules of engagement; getting too close was against the rules, especially when doing so might tip his hand to the client. He wasn't called a professional for nothing, and with his reputation and so many bonuses riding on this job, he wasn't inclined to ignore the rules at this juncture.

So, he would wait.

He would keep his distance and maintain a watch over Gravity Falls as a whole; after all, the client was paying for footage of the demise of the human race as well. Yes, he would maintain a respectable distance… until Stanford Pines succumbed to his infestation, and Mabel was left all alone with her misery and pain.

So, barely stifling his laughter, he floated away to view the carnage from another angle.

* * *

"There's only a handful of individuals and organizations who have it in their power to safely negotiate with a Forger Wasp Queen, and very few of them have any interest in attacking our dimension. And it's an organization who are behind this, believe me."

In that moment, they were deep in the forest, probably well past the Enchanted Glade and into unfamiliar territory. By Mabel's watch, it was thirty minutes to midnight, they had only two vials of serum left, and by now, Ford looked to be in his twenties – at best. If Mabel was any judge, he could be down to age nineteen any minute now.

Worse still, his advice had been cut off several times in the last hour or so: more than once, they'd heard footsteps in the distance, and they'd had to stop and hug the ground in case it turned out to be patrolling Mabels. It was only now that they'd been walking for ten uninterrupted minutes that they were finally getting to the point:

"They call themselves the Retribution Squad," said Ford.

"The _who?"_

"They're more formally known as the Eternally Clean-Handed Zathropodal Brethren Of Mercenary Vengeance, but everyone calls them the Retribution Squad. They're an organization for hire across the multiverse, and they have taken jobs from just about everyone – and I do mean _everyone:_ they've even accepted contracts from people who've previously tried to wipe them out. As long as the client wants to take revenge on someone in an especially cruel and hands-off fashion, the squad will take the job. And they'll only allow revenge: no world domination, no coup d'états, no election night horseplay, no resource grabs, no hostile takeovers, nothing but the strictest and cruellest kind of vengeance. _Nemo Me Impune Lacessit,_ as they say."

"Nemo who?" Mabel blurted. "And what do clownfish have to do with all this?"

In spite of himself, Ford smiled. "It means 'No-one harms me and remains unpunished.' They are facilitators of vengeance, multiverse-wide enablers of other peoples' desire for revenge. And now they're after us."

"But who sent them? Who wants to take revenge against _us?"_

"I don't know, and all I could get from the radio was an alias: William Yard VIII. Don't ask me who the hell that's supposed to be, because it's probably some kind of obscure riddle that I haven't had time to focus on. The point is, this Mr Yard wanted us to suffer without anyone knowing it was him behind us all, and he hired the Retribution Squad for the job."

"So there's no point in guessing why this happened? We're facing the end of the world for no reason whatsoever? _That's it?_"

"I'm sorry, but we can't focus on the whys and why-nots right now, Mabel: we don't have enough information on the…"

Ford sighed. _"I_ don't have enough information. All I know is that, based on the fact that they picked you as royal host for a Queen, you're the main target; they want you to suffer the most. And that's why you have the advantage: the Retribution Squad will want to draw out your agonies for as long as possible, and as long as they're still trying to do that, they'll leave you free to act. And as long as they think they've got you exactly where they want you, as long as they believe you're effectively incapable of stopping them, you have the opportunity to beat them." He took a deep breath and paused. "You see, there are rules-_ Aaah!"_

With a sharp yelp of pain, he stumbled in mid-step, and would have toppled over if it hadn't been for the tree he'd collapsed against.

"What's wrong?" Mabel asked urgently.

"Arrgh. Cramps… or something like cramps. Stabbing pains in my legs, one way or the other." Panting for breath, Ford drew his handheld scanner from a pocket of his coat and anxiously studied his stricken legs. "Ah," he said at last. "I was worried about this part. The muscles have started contracting; it's a precursor to the final stage of transformation, a warm-up to the really nasty part of this: as I get closer to your age, the muscles will actually shrink, along with my bones. It'll be… quite painful, I'd imagine."

He injected himself at the neck again. "Last one, now. How do I look now?"

Mabel examined him as best as she could in the pale glow: already, his square jaw was starting to look a little bit on the slender side, and his once-muscular build had well and truly wilted away; now, he had the spindly, skinny frame of his early college years, judging from Stan's description. Once again, it wasn't as simple as de-aging, for his hair had gone the exact chestnut-brown shade as Mabel's. Was it her imagination, or were his facial features beginning to soften? Did his voice sound more like hers now?

"Uh, eighteen, I guess," Mabel estimated. "Isn't there anything you can do to stop it from hurting?"

"Of course: all I have to do is stop taking the serum and the conversion rate will proceed much smoother and swifter. The more I draw it out, the more it hurts. I've got solutions to that… but they won't be of much help while I'm still on my feet. Come on, I've got a little while left; let's keep moving."

As they marched onwards, ever-closer to the enchanted glade, Ford continued as best as he could – as even as he spoke, Mabel realized with a growing surge of horror that he really was beginning to sound like her. The more he talked, the more she heard her own voice blending and weaving in with his own – not a perfect replica of it, but more like how she'd sound as a teenager; she could still hear Ford's own voice in there, but it was getting progressively younger and fainter as it merged with hers. And the more Mabel listened, the more inescapably _wrong_ it sounded: Ford wasn't meant to sound young and chirrupy, just as _she_ wasn't meant to say the things he was saying.

"There are rules to the Retribution Squad," he continued, now in a much lower tone of voice. "They're not common hitmen, and they don't get their hands dirty: they inflict revenge for their clients indirectly, through proxies, accidents, twists of fate, the bigger and more agonizing the better. And in all cases, there's only _one_ operative assigned to a case, both to set the ball in motion and to make sure the client can enjoy the sight of their enemies suffering. Chances are, we've got a member of the Retribution Squad – a man called 'Grey' – is watching us even as we speak."

Mabel looked around nervously. "He's invisible or something?" she asked.

"Something like that. They have access to that technology. They have access to a _lot _of things, technology that straddles the divide between science and magic… and on occasion they have real magic; it's a diverse group. Point is, there'll be one of them here, and if I'm right, he will be prepared for the worst."

"So?"

"This agent will have had to arrange _everything_ about this act of revenge, Mabel, and that includes getting a Forger Wasp Queen on board. A true professional wouldn't have headed into a Wasp Nest reality without protection, and Grey wouldn't be here unless he'd made arrangements for worst-case scenarios – the most obvious one being a betrayal by the Queen."

Mabel thought for a moment. "Wait… you're saying _he's _got a cure?"

"That's the idea. Probably multiple vials of it, in fact."

"Great! So how are we supposed to catch this guy?"

There was a pause, as Ford visibly cringed. "Well, that's the hard part. Grey won't be _completely_ invisible. I'm pretty sure I may have a device or two that _might_ be able to pick him up at medium range, key words being may and might: I'm not sure how much I ended up leaving behind on the garage workbench. Good news is, he'll probably easier to spot at close he wants to record some footage of you suffering in detail, sooner or later-"

"He'll get close to me."

"Exactly."

"What if he's been listening in and already knows what we're gonna do? Or what if he doesn't have a cure – just some kind of forcefield?"

"He might be nearly invisible, but that doesn't mean he can hear literally everything we've been saying, not without getting close enough to be noticed. Just keep your voice low, and we'll be fie. And if he does have a forcefield, then it's all over… but I'm hoping he won't have taken that risk. After all, what would he do if the forcefield broke down?"

"Fair enough. But what about robots? You said this is a job he'd have to do without getting his hands dirty. What if he's got an android army or something to help with that, or keep himself safe from the Wasps?"

"Even if he would have such a thing with him, he'd never have a chance to use it. Forger Wasps despise artificial intelligence with a passion: robots, sentient computers, synthetic humans, non-organics… they're a form of sapient life the Wasps can't convert, and that infuriates them beyond all reason. Any androids planted within their territory would have been smashed to pieces long before they could be activated." He shook his head sadly. "Just like my own attempts at building robots. McGucket's own mechanical simulacra will have probably met a similar fate; shame, too, we could really use a Gobblewonker right about now."

He thought for a moment and added, "There's one other rule you need to know: it's customary for operatives of the Retribution Squad to gloat, but only once victory is guaranteed. It might help… but I'd rather not imagine what you might have to do to make that happen."

Several seconds went by in silence.

"I think my hair's getting longer."

And so it was, a long mane of chestnut-brown hair cascading down the back of Ford's increasingly scrawny neck and over his ever-loosening collar.

"We don't have much time left…"

* * *

With all of Gravity Falls fully conquered and its borders secure from intrusion, the Forger Wasps surged beyond the confines of the town: with Mabel's memories and those of everyone who had explored the forests at their disposal, they knew exactly where to look for new victims.

Their first target was gnome territory; just as they'd taken the golf course, they lured the inhabitants out with a single Mabel. The moment they arrived to meet their friend, hero and one-time Queen, the Mabels swarmed over the gnomes, capturing hundreds of them and infestation thousands more. With smaller bodies, the infestation took much less time to progress through the gnomes, and in a matter of minutes, the fleeing stragglers were already well on their way to full conversion. In seconds, they were attacking their fellows and converting them as well.

Halfway through the attack, Jeff and Schmebulock managed to rally the survivors for a last stand against the invaders, but even their mighty colossus couldn't stand up to the Mabels: running at full speed, a platoon of the duplicates took out the gnomes that formed its legs, tackling them away or simply kicking the aside. As soon as the giant gestalt collapsed, the rest of the horde swarmed over it, claiming Jeff first; without a leader, the other gnomes were left helpless and easily infested. Perhaps some of them enjoyed the advantage of larger frames in their few seconds of consciousness, perhaps they didn't; it mattered little to the Wasps and even less to their Queen.

The enchanted glade was next. Fortunately, the unicorns had heard of the attacks on the gnome settlements and refused to open their gates, even when the Mabels tried to appeal to the alliance they'd shared during Weirdmageddon. Unfortunately, they hadn't counted on Grabel being able mimic the traditional chant perfectly. With several hundred thousand hosts on their side, the Forger Wasps overran the glade in seconds, infesting every last unicorn, satyr, and other supernatural being inhabitant. Even Celestabellebethabelle couldn't run fast enough to escape them. Altering unicorn physiology to human form was difficult and painful, especially with disassembling the mass of the extra legs and hindquarters, but the Forger Wasps were nothing if not adaptable.

After that, they moved on to the Manotaurs, Dipper's memory easily guiding them all the way to their caves. The horn-headed men proved challenging opponents once they started using clubs instead of their bare hands, but Dipper had known had they fought, how to outsmart them and how to goad them on: it only took a little effort – plus a few emasculating insinuations – to get them to drop their guard and take the bait. Shrinking down a few tons of Manotaur to Mabel size took much longer than the conversion of any human, gnome or lilliputtian, but the rich depths of pain and humiliation inherent in each one made the conquest all the sweeter.

At the centre of the telepathic web of connections, the Queen looked on with amusement as each individual was slowly absorbed into the swarm. From another angle, she observed Mabel own memories streaming into perspective, watching her progress through the darkest woods and deepest reaches. Mabel had no knowledge of that region of the forest, and with the hive still assimilating the memories of the few creatures that had dared to intrude upon the dense undergrowth and tightly-packed trees, it was impossible to work out where she was at the moment. However, the Queen knew that Stanford Pines was trying to warn her about the Grey Professional, the man her _Dam_ had called "Agent Amontillado."

For a time, she briefly considered warning the Professional of this conversation. But then she thought again. If her charming benefactor were to falter and fail, then his gear would belong to them – including his dimensional teleporter and the forg . The means by which the Retribution Squad travelled the multiverse would be within her grasp, and from there, any world imaginable: she could spread her infestation beyond this reality, to every single parallel world and alternate universe within reach of the Squad, and maybe even beyond that.

In time, she could even make her way into the dominions of other great Forger Wasp Queens, those who had made entire universes their nests. Their kingdoms no doubt seemed unassailable, but how quickly they could fall when arrayed against a fellow Queen, and quicker still when against a Queen armed with the might of two or three or even four universes! Oh, the conquests that would await her then! The doors to total supremacy across the entire multiverse might well be open to her…

So for now, she would allow Ford and Mabel's interference in the Grey Professional's plans, so long as it would benefit her.

By now, over a hundred thousand infested bodies were under her command – and all this just from one small town and its surrounding woods. How many could she recruit from the surrounding villages and _their_ supernatural communities? Certainly, Gravity Falls was not the only settlement with a magical populace, only one of the biggest and most prosperous.

Soon, the world beyond this sad little county would be within her reach.

Soon, it would all be hers.

* * *

It was past midnight now, at least as far as they knew.

Ford's watch had slipped off his undersized wrist a while ago and Mabel had left her own watch back at the Mystery Shack. They had no idea where they were anymore – for all they knew, they'd left Roadkill County behind a long time ago. All they could tell was the trees were so dense they were having trouble manoeuvring in anything other than single file.

And they _had_ to walk side by side now, because Ford was no longer capable of walking unassisted.

In the last few minutes alone, he'd lost almost two feet in height, shrinking down until he was almost at eye level with Mabel. Right now, with his gigantic coat, shirt sleeves hanging over his hands, trailing pant legs and shoes dangling off his feet, he looked more like a kid dressing up in his dad's work clothes. Of course, it'd be fairer to say he looked uncannily like Mabel playing dress-ups: his hair now almost hip-length, and there was almost nothing left of his familiar features except for a faint squareness of the jaw and those ever-inquisitive eyes. On the upside, it was now a lot easier to help Ford along now that he was close to her height, so long as she kept her hands away from his bare skin. Unfortunately, this could only mean that their time was almost up.

With a groan of pain, Ford finally pitched forward out of Mabel's grasp and collapsed against a tree – which he promptly slid down, all the way to the dirt. "The metal plate in my head," he gasped. "It's gone."

"What?"

"It just… dissolved. The Forger-Wasp in me must have been eroding it on a molecular level and expelling it along with my shed mass over the last few hours, but it's not until now that I felt the last of it vanish." He laughed deliriously. "Talk about a weight off my mind. Ah, but now I'm hearing a lot of voices from outside – thousands of them, and one louder and more powerful than all the others, issuing commands across all of Gravity Falls."

"Does that mean-?"

"Yes. I'm being incorporated into the hive mind. In other words, it's pretty much over for me now. And I've run out of things to say… but I can still help in a few small ways here and there." He reached into a pocket of his coat and held out a pair of heavy goggles. "This is the one device I have left that might be able to detect Grey: he still has a recognizable energy signature, even with all his concealment. But remember, he has to be very close by."

"But I can't-"

"Yes you can, Mabel. Now, there's one other thing I can do for you. Do I still have my left boot? I can't feel my feet anymore."

Without saying a word, Mabel plucked the boot off Ford's now child-sized foot and handed it to him. Flipping it upside down, the old scientist reached into the heel and opened a hidden compartment: inside lay three small vials of translucent liquid and one syringe. Then, with as much dexterity as his trembling hands could allow, he began preparing an injection – using all three vials.

"I thought you didn't have any more anti-parasite serum," said Mabel.

Ford chuckled wearily. "It's not serum. It's… well, it's an anaesthetic."

"…what?"

"It's normally only enough to keep me going through serious injuries, but all three vials… all three vials will probably be enough to knock me out. With the Forger Wasp's physiology taking over, it won't last long, but it'll be enough to keep me down for at least half an hour after my conversion is complete."

"You mean-"

"It's my last lifeline to you. This way, I can give you enough time to escape me; by the time the new me is up and about, you'll be far, far away. And with any luck, you'll have already found Grey and stolen his stockpile of cure, and all this nonsense will be over and done with."

With the syringe now full, he absently searched for a vein on his left arm, and with shaking, sweat-soaked fingers, injected himself. "There," he sighed. "It's done. Now go: no long goodbyes, please, Mabel. We'll see each other again soon, hopefully without the Forger Wasps around."

He offered her an encouraging smile that almost managed to rally Mabel's flagging morale for a few seconds. She almost set off, almost forced herself to start walking, but at the last minute, doubt hit an override switch.

"I can't do this," she said quietly. She was crying now, despite her best efforts to hold back the tears.

"Yes, you _can_. You've fought against worse threats than this before, Mabel: you've been pitted against enemies that would have unmade the world. I don't doubt your skill or you conviction for a minute, and neither should you. Besides, you've got everything you need to stop this. Just think of this as round two: you aced the first round, and now-"

"No I _didn't!"_ Mabel almost shrieked, her deeply-buried self-loathing bubbling noisily to the surface. "I can't fix this, Grunkle Ford, not after I helped ruin it in the first place! Dabel tricked me into helping them start the apocalypse, and I've only been making things worse! I never help anyone, I just make things worse!"

For a moment or so, she could only sob helplessly… and suddenly, she couldn't keep her silence a moment longer, even with her shame still digging into her.

"Grunkle Ford," she said, gradually steadying her voice despite her tears. "There's something you need to know about me: I haven't told anyone else about this, but you need to hear it – because this is why I'm only going to make this worse if you let me. Weirdmageddon didn't happen because the rift broke open in my backpack, but-"

"Because you gave the rift to Bill while he was disguised as Blendin Blandin," said Ford without missing a beat.

Mabel blinked, suddenly too shocked to cry. "You _knew?"_

"Of course. I'm tapped into the hive mind now, Mabel: the Forger Wasps have access to every single memory you possess, and now that I'm slowly becoming one of them, I'm allowed to partake of that knowledge… in my final moments." He smiled sadly. "Bill made you an offer, just like he did with me. He disguised his nature by pretending to be your friend, just like he did with me. And you genuinely thought nobody would be hurt… just like me."

"I'm sorry. I'm just… so sorry-"

"Don't be. You've got nothing to be sorry for, Mabel: nobody blames you for what happened. It wasn't your fault; Bill was the one who tricked you and broke the rift."

"But it _is_ my fault! I tried to pretend nothing happened, I tried to pretend I didn't remember how the rift broke, and for a while, I even tried to trick myself into thinking it wasn't all because of me… but that's what Dabel wanted! That's what the Forger Wasps wanted me to think, so I wouldn't think to stop them before it was too late."

Ford sighed, eyes beginning to droop ever-so-slightly. "So, you fell for their lies just as you fell for Bill's. You made mistakes. You trusted the wrong people. And maybe you even behaved a little thoughtlessly under the circumstances. But you know what that makes you, Mabel? It makes you just like Dipper, like Stanley, like _me._ It makes you human. We want to think we're invincible, infallible, immortal and so many other words starting with 'I', but we're not. And there's nothing wrong with that."

"But still, I didn't tell anyone about what I did. I kept it a secret… because I was afraid of what Dipper would say. He'd hate me for this-"

"_No, he wouldn't._ And I'm not guessing, Mabel. I know. I can feel the minds of all the others assimilated into the Forger Wasp's hive: the knowledge has been spread to all their sleeping minds, and in their dreams, they all know about what you did… and they've all forgiven you. Dipper, Wendy, Soos, Stan, and everyone in Gravity Falls. Nobody in this town could blame you after everything you did to help them."

In spite of herself, Mabel actually felt her heart give a little wobble of emotion at this. "Really?" she asked. "You can actually feel all that?"

"Of course. I'm…"

His eyelids fluttered. "Wow," he gasped. "Finally kicking in. Took a while to work its way through the Forger Wasp's neural fibres, but it's getting to me. Probably no more than a minute left. I… I should probably tell you start running now and spare the sentiments, but… I want you to know, just in case this doesn't work, that you're still a good person."

"Ford-"

"And you'll always be a much better person than me." He laughed. "Setting the bar pretty low, I admit. But however this ends, I'm glad I met you; it's been a privilege to be a Grunkle to you and Dipper… even if it did take me a while to start acting the part…"

Ford took a hoarse, shallow breath, his eyelids fluttering wildly. He was almost her, now, just a year removed from her current age, his diminished body swimming in his now-gigantic clothes.

"Just one other thing, Mabel," he gasped. "If all else fails, he has to believe he's won. Make him believe he's won. Absolute last resort."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll know. You'll know it all soon." He smiled in spite of himself, and reassuringly squeezed Mabel's hand. "You can do this. You don't have to worry about a thing. I… I meant it when I said I was proud of y-"

His eyes widened, as if in surprise. Then he sank back to the ground, his eyes fluttering shut, body going slack as the sedative caught with him and he lapsed into unconsciousness. Finally, as Mabel looked on in horror, the last infinitesimal vestiges of Stanford Pines slowly faded away, until all that remained was another replica of Mabel, lying in clothes several sizes too big for her.

Grunkle Ford was gone.

In his place, Fabel lay fast asleep, just waiting to awaken and spread the plague.

For a moment, Mabel thought she was going to start crying again. But then the moment passed and took the incoming storm of tears with it: suddenly, all the sorrow and all the guilt she'd been feeling were gone, scooped out of her as with a shovel. She was calm – perfectly and unnaturally calm.

Had Dipper felt this way after Bill had petrified Ford, or had he felt completely lost? He'd never spoken of that time, and if she got out of this one alive and free, Mabel wouldn't either… but still, she'd have to get that far first.

She stood, dried her eyes, fitted the goggles over her eyes, drew her grappling hook, and began the long, slow march into the forest - eyes peeled for the glow of something not-quite visible.

_Let the hunt begin..._

* * *

A/N: This soundtrack's soundtrack is _Liquid Light_ by Jessica Curry.

And now for the code!

**Zmw mld blf'ev olhg blfi urmzo uirvmw**  
**Blf'w yvhg yvorvev blf'ev ivzxsvw gsv vmw**  
**Dsb mlg trev rm zmw xlnv yzxp slnv**  
**Uli mld rg hvvnh blf'iv zoo zolmv**


	18. The Lonely Walk

A/N: Sorry this has arrived so late, ladies and gents; I'm still on the mend from whatever bug I picked up earlier this month, and my eyes are still recovering from my last round of overtime at work. Suffice it to say I'm still hurting, but I'll do my best to get chapters out in a timely fashion from now on as long as I'm not in danger of doing serious damage to my health.

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls is still not mine.

* * *

For hour after hour, Mabel walked.

She had no idea where she was going and no idea what the hell she was going to when she got there, but she knew she couldn't afford to stop. By now, the Forger Wasps were probably out combing the forest for any sign of her, and the Mabel who'd once been Grunkle Ford might very well already be awake. It was that thought – of a Mabel clone in Grunkle Ford's coat following her trail, sniffing the air and grinning like bleached bone in the deathly-pale moonlight as it hunted her down – that kept her moving.

More than anything else, she was hoping against hope that she'd never actually see the new Mabel up and about; given that she had the fate of the world in her hands, it was a little weird to think like this, but somehow the prospect of actually meeting the latest clone seemed worse than failing at this point. Maybe it was because it would bring the loss of Ford, Wendy, Pacifica and the others into sharp relief, maybe because it would mean seeing another one of her family reduced to a mockery of herself. Whatever the case, she didn't want to see that familiar figure in the oversized coat stalking her through the forest, didn't want to see that awful smile gleaming in the half-light.

She didn't want to meet Fabel.

So she kept on moving, even though she'd no idea where the mysterious Mr Grey could be found. She'd scanned the area a dozen times with the goggles that Grunkle Ford had given her, and she still couldn't find head nor tail of him, and after a while she had to stop using them or risk breaking them while tripping over the roots of the nearest tree.

At well past midnight, this was the darkest part of the forest, probably the darkest place in all of Gravity Falls apart from the caves up in the mountains… but out here, the canopy was so thick and the trees so densely-packed that it might as well have been a cave.

Even with the flashlight it wasn't easy to keep track of where she was going, and more often than not, Mabel kept banging her knees and bumping her shins on tree roots as she stumbled past; keeping the light angled at the ground might have solved this little problem, but that would have meant walking facefirst into branches or spiderwebs every step of the way, so she had to walk very carefully one way or the other.

It would have been a strange place to walk through even in the daylight, and to Mabel it felt all the weirder given that she'd never been here before – alone or in company. She'd never travelled this deep into the forests, not even on their mission to the enchanted glade, and she'd never seen anything of Gravity Falls quite like this: the eerie-looking trees and the cramped lanes between them were strange enough, but stranger still were the stray beams of moonlight that very occasionally filtered down from the canopy. On the rare points where there was enough light to illuminate a clearing, it made this stretch of forest – normally as mazelike and claustrophobic as a honeycomb of passages deep beneath the earth – seem more like a coral reef: maybe it was something in the trees or those strange mushrooms sprouting from the trunks, the light seemed almost blue, enough to make Mabel feel as though she was underwater.

However, the strangest thing of all about this place was how _deserted_ it seemed. She'd been hoping to run into one of the forest dwellers at some point, maybe a gnome, a Manotaur – even one of the unicorns would have been welcome. True, there was no way of telling if they would have been any help against the Forger Wasps or Grey, but it would have been nice to have a little company. Either she'd blundered into a part of the forest where the magical critters didn't usually tread… or the wasps were already invading the forest and the gnomes and Manotaurs were being converted into fresh Mabels. Frankly, neither option seemed particularly pleasant... but still, Mabel had to keep moving on: she was still alive and still free, and as long as she remained ahead of the swarm, there was still hope.

And as long as she kept moving, she could almost believe it.

* * *

Perhaps two or three hours into the journey, Mabel caught a glimpse of light up ahead, too bright to be from the moon or even from the fungi glowing on the tree-trunks around her; she couldn't work out the source of it through the trees, but it had to be a spotlight at the very least.

Once again, there weren't many options to choose from: a) she'd somehow made it as far as the highway, b) she'd walked into a camp of hikers with a really good set of portable lights, or c) the Forger Wasps were _seconds_ away from finding her… and so far, options one or two weren't looking all that likely. But right now, she couldn't be sure of what to do until she got a good look and what was going on; so, crouching down as low to the ground as possible, she crawled forward until she was close enough to get a good look at whatever lay beyond the trees, and peered out over the edge of the nearest barrier or roots.

Ahead of her, the forest had thinned into a clearing large enough to accommodate a decent-sized house, and in the middle of it, several large burrows had been dug in the earth, and some of the trees opposite bore tiny doors and windows. Mabel hadn't been around when Grenda and the others had gone looking for help among the gnomes, but from the description they'd given her back when that business with the unicorns was over and done with, this sounded just like the gnome settlement they'd visited.

It didn't take long for Mabel to discover the source of the light: several powerful floodlights had been mounted atop a small fleet of golf carts, all of them pointed in the direction of the gnome dwellings. And as she peered closer, she saw that the soil was covered in hundreds of tiny footprints, and judging by the occasional hat or boot trampled into the mud, this had happened very recently and probably in a hurry too – after all why would any gnome leave his hat behind? From the look of the tracks, they must have been trying to flee inside at some point... but since then, every single door and window had been either kicked in or ripped outwards.

A quick look at the tracks revealed that they continued through the forest for some distance, often passing other gnome buildings along the way – many them in even worse condition. And maybe it was just Mabel's fear-crazed imagination at work, but she swore she could hear screams in the distance.

Mabel couldn't tell precisely what had happened, but it was obvious that the Forger Wasps had come calling earlier that night. Maybe the survivors had fled to this last village on the edge of the thickest part of the forest with the Mabels following with bright lights, flushing them out of dark corners and crannies. And then, either the Mabels had dug them out… or they'd simply infested them and waited until the new clones flushed them out of their tunnels. Mabel shuddered, and tried not to imagine the last of the gnomes paralysed with terror in the spotlights as the wasps closed in them (without much success).

As expected, the gnomes were nowhere in sight, but neither were the Mabels. Either they'd simply abandoned the golf-carts here while they went on stalking the stragglers across the forest... or they were also hunting for her, and had left the lights just to make finding her a little easier. From the looks of things, there _were_ other lights in the distance. Either way, Mabel couldn't afford to stay out here. As soon as the Queen received the last few minutes of memories, the rest of the swarm would be hot on her tail again.

_Five minutes,_ she thought wildly. _That's exactly how far ahead I'll ever be. Five to ten minutes before the Queen knows exactly where I am and what I'm doing. Actually, you might as well make it five minutes because Grunkle Ford never said it really was ten minutes so it's safer to say five because Grunkle Ford means what he says and is this what it feels like to have a nervous breakdown and aaargh!_

Mabel took a deep breath. _Okay, _she thought, forcing herself to calm down. _You've still got plenty of time; just keep moving and you'll be fine._

So, scuttling away from the light, she got to her feet and took off running as fast as she could – edging around the clearing for about fifty feet before plunging back into the welcome darkness of the forest.

* * *

At four-thirty in the morning, Mabel found the forest abruptly give way to a steep, rocky incline too steep to climb by hand. Peering up it she once again saw the distant glow of lights at the top of the hill – except these were clearly from lampposts. And from just past them, she could hear the roar of hundreds of engines rocketing past every second.

She'd reached the highway.

For a moment, Mabel had a wild fantasy of flagging down a passing car and hitchhiking to a town where she could find help: maybe there might be a way of getting proof of the outbreak to the local police, enough to warn the rest of the country, maybe even finding a scientist who could help create a cure.

She actually found herself following the hill, giddily hoping to find an easier route to the road, but after about fifteen seconds, reality caught up with her. In the end, the idea was just a daydream, a silly idea that wouldn't have worked even if she had managed to make it all the way to a working laboratory with proof of the outbreak. After all, how much time would she waste on running off to another town? She only had a week before all the infested victims were past the point of no return, and getting any help would take days at the very least… especially the matter of actually proving that the incoming invasion army of Mabel clones was real. And if Ford and McGucket – two of the greatest geniuses in the country if not the whole planet – couldn't work out a cure with a head-start and the best equipment in the multiverse, what luck could ordinary scientists have?

But that wasn't what actually stopped her in her tracks: what _did _was the sight of a small figure lurking on the hill above her, hidden in the branches of a tree on the other side of the guardrail. Mabel didn't need to see the permanent grin on the figure's face to recognize that it was yet another Mabel clone, and even from here it was plainly obvious that it was keeping a close eye on the traffic.

Either this sentry was here to make sure Mabel didn't try to escape by the road… or the Forger Wasps were getting ready to move beyond Gravity Falls. Hopefully they were planning on holding steady until they recaptured her, but frankly, that wasn't much comfort considering the situation was already as bad as it could possibly get.

Mabel didn't want to think about what might happen once this worst-case scenario, but her imagination had other ideas. Already, she could almost see it happening before her eyes: one word from the Queen, and the sentry would hitchhike out of town, shaking hands and exchanging hugs with every single driver she met, spreading the infestation along the highway until every city in the country had a Mabel on the street. And those Mabels would begin infesting people, and _those_ Mabels would infest more, and _those_ Mabels would infest even more… and long before new reports of the new epidemic hit the airwaves, a few of the Forger Wasps would begin stowing away aboard planes and cargo ships. Those ships would probably be completely infested and converted by the time they reached their destination, and every Mabel aboard would spread further.

And after that, all Mabel could think of was an extremely deadly version of multiplication tables that had annoyed her so much back in grade school.

Forger Wasps x Gravity Falls = invasion army.

Invasion army x the rest of Oregon = Mabel Plague.

Mabel Plague x America = Mabel Pandemic.

Mabel Pandemic x international travel = extinction of the human race.

All in all, Mabel reflected, as she hurried away in the opposite direction, the situation _really_ wasn't looking all that hopeful.

* * *

The Grey Professional regarded the scene with growing apprehension as the two new arrivals hastily ducked behind the bushes and did their best to crawl out of sight.

This was most assuredly _not_ part of the plan.

All his research suggested that Gravity Falls wouldn't be receiving any human visitors from the forest, much less campers. These were clearly not locals: the town was fully converted by now, and even if it hadn't been, the Queen would have noticed any absences from among the population and had Mabels ready to intercept them the moment they returned home.

So what were _these_ two interlopers doing here?

Thankfully, he hadn't had to break his rules any further by alerting the Queen to the presence of the intruders: one of the patrols had already noticed the fresh bicycle tracks in the mud not far from here, and a squad of Mabels had arrived by golf cart to investigate... _but they were looking in the wrong direction._ They were searching northwards when they should have been looking southward, and it was taking all of the Grey Professional's willpower not to scream advice at them as they passed him by.

The campers had the advantage of an all-terrain bike and relatively even ground, so if they had a headstart, they might just be able to outrun the swarm. And if they could manage that, they could warn outsiders; one photo shared online and their zero-presence profile would be wrecked. True, it probably wouldn't be enough to stop the Forger Wasps, but it would certainly put a crimp in their heretofore flawless expansion plan and probably ruin Grey's chances of a bonus.

But why was this happening? Why hadn't his collected files mentioned either of these idiots? Why did they sound so much like Dipper? And why were they wearing raincoats?

What the hell was going on?

Sighing, he turned… and realized almost too late that, in his frustrations, he'd forgotten all about his primary target.

Mabel was nearby.

* * *

It was almost dawn when Mabel first noticed the subtle movements in the undergrowth.

In truth, she probably wouldn't have noticed it at all if it hadn't been for the first subtle hit of sunrise creeping though the trees, tinting the forest the dull grey-blue of early-morning twilight. The promise of daybreak was welcome enough, though that wasn't the point – after all, there wasn't much that could have cheered her up, under the circumstances.

By now, she'd been walking for almost five straight hours, only taking breaks for a minute every forty; she was tired, hungry, thirsty, cold, lonely and so footsore she thought her toes might be about to drop off in protest. So far, the only progress she'd made was to gradually move into the shallower end of the forest, and that would probably make it a lot easier for the Mabels to spot her I the worst came to the worst. All in all, she wasn't in any condition to notice anything, especially now that she'd realized that she'd spent most of the night playing into the Forger Wasps' hands; it had taken her a while to figure out what was going on, but she finally understood the truth.

All night, she'd been expecting the Mabels to try catching up with her, to use her newest memories to hunt her down, prepare an ambush or drive her into a trap. Only now, when it was much too late to make a different had she realized the simple and obvious truth: they didn't _have_ to hunt her down at all; they could just wait until she was too tired to continue walking, then move in on her. Once Mabel was asleep – or unconscious – they could just follow the memories until they found her, and that would be it.

And the hell of it was, _it was too late for her to do anything about it_: she was already completely bushed, trying to hoof it any further would probably knock her out, she hadn't found any trace of Grey _and_ she she'd already found a golf cart parked nearby; it was only a matter of time before the clones found her.

The Queen had already won and once again, it was all Mabel's fault.

And it was then that, just as she was about to give up entirely, she saw something flickering through the trees, the bushes and shrubbery shivering as it passed: a hazy, transparent shape rippling through the air like a ghost. It looked almost like a puff of mist flowing just above the ground… but then Mabel brought out the goggles and saw that this cloud of fog was registering a heat signature… and wearing a _hat._

As if in a trance, she strode towards the figure, trying to look as casual as possible as she zeroed in on him. The plan was to bump into Grey as hard as she could and tackle him to the ground, then grab a vial of cure off him while he was still reeling.

Unfortunately, the plan hit something of a snag almost immediately: Grey was still in motion, and though he hadn't realized Mabel was following him, he was now moving fast enough for her first pounce to fall short by almost three feet. And judging by the fact that he hadn't even bothered to turn around, he hadn't even noticed she'd tried to grab him; on he went, floating calmly through the bushes without a care in the world.

Swearing, she started after him again, crashing through the greenery as quickly as her battered feet could manage. However, she soon found herself trudging through a thick patch of undergrowth, losing track of him in seconds; a moment later, she took a right turn in the hopes of escaping the maze of foliage – and promptly walked right into something very solid and distinctly human-shaped.

For one heart-stopping instant, Mabel thought she'd bumped into one of her clones and almost screamed – only for the figure to clamp a hand over her mouth and whisper, "_Please_ don't shout, Mabel; we're both dead if you do."

Mabel blinked, suddenly finding herself staring into familiar brown eyes. For a moment, she swore her heart really did skip a beat or three as she took in the impossible features of the figure now standing before her.

"_Dipper?"_ she whispered, as the hand withdrew. "But you were- how did you- what- why-"

But there were simply too many questions to ask at once; in the end, the only one she could finish was "Why are you wearing a raincoat?"

"It's a very long story," said 'Dipper,' "But first thing's first, I'm technically not Dipper: I'm Quattro."

"You're _who?"_

"She wasn't there for that half of the night, remember?" muttered another familiar voice from nearby. "You're going to have to go into more detail."

"I was just getting to that, Tracy…"

Dumbfounded, Mabel peered over Quattro's shoulder and saw another Dipper hiding in the bushes behind him. Like the first, he was dressed in a full-body rain poncho complete, but this one had his hood back – revealing that there was a large number three scrawled on his hat in permanent marker; a closer look at Quattro revealed that he had a number four drawn above the brim of his cap. And as she stood back and started taking the full picture into account, she slowly realized that the two Dippers looked curiously wan and washed-out, just a tiny bit paler than the real thing… almost like cheap photocopies.

Mabel almost laughed. "You're _copier clones!"_ she exclaimed. "I'd almost forgotten all about you guys; I mean, Dipper said two of you came back and tried to live in the closet for a while, but I never thought I'd actually get to _meet_ you!"

Tracy's eyes rose. "So Dipper told you about us, huh? I thought he'd want to keep a lid on all that stuff after what happened with Tyrone. I mean with all the-"

"Business at hand, Tracy," grumbled Quattro loudly, "_business at hand_..."

"Oh, right. Uh… anyway, something's seriously wrong out here, Mabel. We heard that nobody was getting in and out of Gravity Falls for the last week or two, so we came back here to see what was going on. Since then we've been seeing all these clones of you all over the place, but they weren't made with the copier – they were splashing through puddles and everything! And where have all the gnomes gone?"

"And why are they all so _angry_ all of a sudden?"

Mabel opened her mouth to reply, to insist that she had to walk and talk while there was still a chance to catch up with Grey, only for another question to hit her side-on. "Hang on, what do you mean 'angry'?" she demanded; the notion of the clones being angry about anything sounded so alien to the eerily-happy Mabels that even Mabel herself couldn't quite picture it.

"Well, ever since they started patrolling around here, they've all been sniffing the air and growling – _actually growling_ if you can believe it. They haven't said anything since then, but you can tell they're angry."

Briefly overwhelmed by curiosity, Mabel leaned forward and sniffed the air about half an inch from Quattro's face ("Don't sneeze," he warned). To her surprise, there _was_ a distinctive scent about him, a smell reminiscent of warm paper fresh from the printer, tempered with the oddly soapy aroma of burnt electrical equipment. Mabel couldn't guess at how powerful the Forger Wasps' senses were, but she had to assume that they could recognize that those mingled smells didn't belong out in the forest. As for why they were angry…

"Oh, I see," said Mabel, her eyes widening in sudden enlightenment. "They can't convert you!"

"What?"

"Grunkle Ford told me the Forger Wasps can't stand robots and other things they can't take over: that's why they're hunting you down, Quattro – they know you can't be converted, because you're made of paper!"

"Hang on, how do they know that? They haven't even _met_ us yet."

"Dipper's memories."

"What."

"They got Dipper a while ago, so now they have all his memories: he met you, he learned all about you and the other copier clones, and he probably even knows what you smell like, so all the Mabels know as well. So, now they're out hunting for you."

Tracy sighed. "You're going to have to explain things from the very beginning, Mabel, because this isn't making any sense at all."

"Look, it's really simple: just about everyone in Gravity Falls has been taken over by alien bugs from another dimension and transformed into clones of me, and now they're out to take over the world. Plus, they don't like copier clones, they get angry when their queen's in danger, and they were summoned here by some guy called Grey. Don't ask me why, because I've got no clue. Long story short, it's the second time we've dealt with clones and this time they've got nothing... to do... with the copier..."

She trailed off.

"Mabel, are you alright?"

"Is she a clone as well?"

"Don't be dense, Tracy. Mabel, talk to me. Come on, don't freeze up now, not when those things are right around the corner."

But Mabel wasn't listening: she'd just been hit by the biggest bolt of inspiration since her last experiment with wax sculpture. Unbidden, her brain was dredging up recollections of everything she'd seen and heard in the last day or so, flinging open the filing cabinets of her mind and rifling through them at a frantic pace in search of anything that could fuel this mad burst of inspiration: the time she had left, the clone frenzy she'd witnessed at Northwest Manor, the things that Grunkle Ford had told her in his final minutes, and even the glimpses she'd caught while travelling through the forest, all of them somehow overshadowed by the presence of the copier clones. And suddenly, Mabel realized that she didn't have to follow Grey after all.

For the most part, Mabel wasn't much for long-term planning: she was a doer, an improviser, a girl who thrived on being spontaneous – up until the aftermath of Weirdmageddon and the Forger Wasps had taken the wind out of her sails. If you wanted a big complicated strategy, you looked to Dipper; if you wanted an instruction manual, you asked Grunkle Ford. Even Stan had a wealth of experience in confidence scams and get rich quick schemes to fall back on. But now there was an idea forming in her head, a collection of facts and details that she couldn't help assembling into some semblance of a plan: it was a risky plan, an insane plan, a plan that could only have sung from a mixture of desperation, denial and misguided obstinacy… but Mabel had the most peculiar feeling that she could make it _work._

And in that moment, for the first time in what felt like eons, Mabel felt her confidence roaring to life again. For too long, she'd been undermined by her own guilt and crushed by the rise of the Mabels… but now, with Ford's last words still ringing in her ears, two friends by her side and that mad realization fizzing through her brain, it was almost impossible to imagine feeling anything other than mad, self-assured excitement. Somewhere in the back of her head, an invisible band was playing her theme music, stoking her heart to a galloping pace as the rising tide of exuberance flowed through her.

She was ready to stop the Mabels.

She was _back_.

"Do you know how far from the Mystery Shack we are?" she asked, urgently.

"Maybe thirty minutes on foot; we got pretty far up until the Mabels showed up."

A demented grin crossed Mabel's face.

"Think you could make it in five minutes on a golf cart?"

"…maybe. What are you planning?"

"I'll explain on the way, but we've got to get moving _fast._ Now, come on! We've got a planet to save!"

* * *

A/N: Can you guess Mabel's plan?

This chapter's soundtrack is _ Awakened Forest_ by Nobuo Uematsu. And as for the code...

FMDZMGVW VOVNVMGH WVGVXGVW; VORNRMZGV ZG ZOO XLHGH!


	19. Absolute Last Resort

A/N: Aaaaaand we're back! I hope everyone's coping in these troubling times, and with any luck, I might be able to bring some levity to them in my own horribly awkward way.

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls is still not mine.

* * *

"You want to do _what?"_

"Relax, Quattro, it'll make sense in a couple of days. I know I'm asking a lot of you and Tracy, but-"

"No, no, I get that: I'm okay with that part. It's just that... why the heck would you want to do this? What are you supposed to do once you're inside?"

"I can't explain everything in case the Queen finds out. All I can tell you is that it's the only way. Grunkle Ford told me to only do something like this as an absolute last resort, and right now, we are deep in last resort territory – major "here be monsters" country. It's a long shot, but it's the best one we've got right now."

"Oh great! The only approach that's going to work is the _crazy_ one! I feel so much better about this!"

"Pipe down, Tracy."

For the second time that summer, Mabel found herself racing through the forest in a golf cart with an army not too far behind. Admittedly, it was the first time she'd done so with two copier clones bombarding her with questions from the luggage compartment and the army was nowhere near as bearable as the gnomes, but as far as Mabel was concerned, you couldn't have everything the way you wanted it.

Mabel was well aware that what she was about to do was perhaps the _second-_most insanely risky thing she'd done to date, outdone only by the attack on the Fearamid, but by now she was used to this. In fact, she was so high on adrenaline that she was barely even considering the danger to herself anymore (not to mention barely staying in her seat); the only thing that had her slightly worried was the danger posed to everyone else involved with this spectacularly madcap plan. In the end, she could only hope that that Quattro and Tracy were fast enough to outpace the Mabels when it mattered the most; with any luck, the same would apply to the reinforcements she'd soon acquire, as well as…

She shook her head absently. _Ah, we'll cross that bridge once it's on fire and about to collapse, I guess._

By now they'd been driving for a little over two minutes, and though they hadn't run into any patrolling Mabels yet, she had a feeling that it would only be a matter of time before the Forger Wasp swarm showed itself: they were heading back to the Mystery Shack, after all, and even if the wasps weren't using it as a base of operations, they'd be keeping an eye on it – especially with all the equipment that Ford had been forced to leave behind there.

They'd taken as many precautions as they could: Mabel had changed her sweater and wore her shirt inside-out, so hopefully any patrols that happened to see them would think she was just another Mabel, while Tracy and Quattro were hunched down low in the luggage compartment with a blanket slung over their shoulders; if they sat still enough, they'd hopefully look like ordinary cargo – and not something likely to drive the Forger Wasps into a fit of rage.

But in the end, the disguises didn't matter all that much – or rather, _her_ disguise didn't matter that much: as long as the blankets stayed on, the cart kept moving and nobody noticed the two copier clones ahead of schedule, and as long as they got there in the next couple of minutes or so, they'd be fine. The key thing was to make sure that the Queen didn't figure out what was going on before Mabel was ready for it, so they had to be constantly racing against the clock in order to stay ahead of her access to Mabel's memories.

So far, everything was going perfectly – or as perfectly as it could, considering the plan hadn't even gotten past stage 2 yet. All in all, there were only two things that had Mabel ever-so-slightly worried, things that this slapdash scheme unfortunately depended on... and both of them were in the Mystery Shack, probably right in the heart of Forger Wasp country. If the Forger Wasps had destroyed either of them, the plan would be ruined.

The first of them was the copier; the second-

"What the hell is _that?"_

It took Mabel a couple of seconds to recognize what Quattro was talking about: perhaps thirty yards ahead of them, something brightly-coloured was gleaming in the sunlight just past the lowest branches of the nearest trees. Even from here it was immediately apparent that it wasn't anything that belonged – after all, even the gnomes didn't wear anything _that_ garish – but it wasn't until she'd brought the golf-cart to a stop in the undergrowth just to the left of the path that she finally saw what it was.

By now, they were nearing the very edge of the forest, and as the pines gradually dwindled, the three of them saw that they'd finally reached the Mystery Shack: less than twenty feet away, the familiar old building was already creeping into view, resplendent in the morning sun. Under normal circumstances, Mabel would have found it reassuring, even comforting to see the shack still towering proudly over its potholed parking lot, plastic totem pole and mangled lawn. But these weren't even remotely normal circumstances, and as their eyes adjusted to the dazzling sun, it became clear that this was Forger Wasp country, just as Mabel had feared it would be.

Everywhere she looked, her clones had left their mark on the Mystery Shack. The parking lot was now layered in scaffolding, forming crude guard towers and gates all around the building, and each one of them was occupied by a team of grinning Mabels. Razor wire had been spooled along the outer perimeter of the property, and several sections of chain-link fence had already been erected; as for the shack itself, almost every window except for the attic had been covered with a set of thick iron bars, and another team of Mabels were currently fitting the front door with a security gate. And were those _bear traps_ being set up on the lawn?

This wasn't a charming tourist trap anymore, but a fort. Or, if Mabel was right about what her doubles were up to, a prison.

But by far the most unpleasant new addition to the building was the flagpole now topping the highest of the guard towers, for the flag atop it was by far the most infuriating thing Mabel had seen in entire life: it was bright blue and marked with a pair of shooting-star symbols identical to the one Mabel had on her favourite sweater – except one of them was black and neither of them sported the familiar rainbow tails.

The Forger Wasp kingdom now had a national flag.

* * *

"Oh man," Quattro muttered. "You're actually planning on going in _there_?"

"If we're gonna get everyone back to normal, sure."

"How are you even going to get in, though? I mean, I know how we're going to deal with all the defenders, but that still leaves those gates and the bars on the windows."

"The attic window hasn't been barred yet."

"And what if they've put locks on the internal doors as well?" asked Tracy.

"Well, I'll just have to hope I learned enough about lockpicking from Grunkle Stan. Are you ready?"

Quattro took a deep breath. "No," he said grimly, "but we'll do it."

"Just one other thing, Mabel," Tracy added. "What happens if there's still Mabels inside the shack? You'll be caught right away!"

"Well, I guess we'll just have to hope that the Mabels hate you almost as much as Grunkle Ford says, because if we can't kickstart a stampede, we're dead."

"_Seriously?_ And you're relying on _us _for this?"

Mabel offered a mad, exhilarated and ever-so-slightly desperate grin. "This is your chance to save the world, guys. If Dipper can do it, so can you."

She checked her watch: a little over a minute to go before the Queen figured out what they were up to. "Okay, you two," she said hurriedly, "you've got this. Just make sure they see you and keep driving for as long as the golf cart can keep going. Wish me luck."

Barely pausing for breath, she leaned over and hugged the two copier clones tightly around the shoulders; then, she flung herself out of the golf cart and into the bushes.

A moment went by, as Tracy and Quattro doffed their blanket, clambered into the front seats, and steeled themselves for the biggest challenge of their entire lives. Watching from the undergrowth, Mabel was very glad that the copier clones couldn't sweat, because both of them would already be dead by now. Then, taking near-perfectly synchronized breaths, they gunned the cart's engine and roared towards the Mystery Shack.

Skirting the razor wire and circling the compound at high speed, they roared across the edge of the parking lot, both of them making as much noise as possible – in this case, by singing _Ride of the Valkyries _as loudly and tunelessly as possible. As expected, Mabels all around the area immediately downed tools to stare at the golf cart as it rocketed past them, and several actually left the Mystery Shack itself to get a look at the intruder (though not before closing the door behind them). Screaming blue murder, Tracy and Quattro thundered along the border between the asphalt and the grass until they were absolutely certain that all eyes in the area were on them.

Then, they ground to a halt.

"HI GUYS!" they roared cheerfully, grinning mirthlessly at the onlookers.

There was a pause, as the guards took in the sight of the two figures sitting in the golf cart; even from here, Mabel couldn't miss the spark of recognition in their identical eyes. Then, as one, the automatic smiles on the faces of the Mabels slowly faded, replaced by uniform glares of something not unlike hatred. In perfect unisons, the lips pulled back, the teeth slid into view, the brows furrowed with rage, and from somewhere behind the gleaming, braceless teeth, a guttural, animalistic snarl issued forth in a blood-curdling chorus of enraged voices.

And with that, Quattro hit the gas pedal, sending the golf cart rocketing across the compound – and not a moment too soon, for the Forger Wasps were already in motion, launching themselves away from their stations and flinging themselves at the cart. They no longer snarled: they _screamed,_ howling at the top of their lungs, blaring an unearthly, metallic shriek of all-consuming, unreasoning hate as they charged after the fleeing copier clones. Even Mabel, who thought she'd seen the worst the Forger Wasps could do, found herself instinctively ducking as far out of view as far she could go. By now, the pursuing Mabels weren't even running on two legs, but galloping on all fours, no longer perfect clones but nothing more than ravening monsters wearing her face.

Fortunately, the two Dippers had a headstart of about thirty feet, and while the golf cart wasn't a patch on the Stanmobile, it was at least fast enough to stay ahead of the swarm. Hurtling across the lawn, they circled around to the Mystery Shack's back door; from here, Mabel couldn't see what was going on, but judging from the distant roar of the engine and the cacophony of voices beyond, she had to assume that the golf cart had plunged back into the forest as planned.

Mabel swallowed hard, hoping against hope that they'd be able to outrun the swarm – or at the very least that they wouldn't kill Tracy and Quattro right away, that the Queen would be able to reign them in just long enough to try and find out what was going on. In the meantime, now that they had done their part, she had to make sure that she did hers.

So, getting to her feet, she made straight for the Mystery Shack, breaking into a run as she reached the perimeter: hopping over the loops of razor wire as best as she could, she wove around the half-finished scaffolding gates, dodged the bear traps and sprinted towards the Shack.

As expected, the doors were both locked, so she simply aimed her grappling hook at the attic window and fired; thankfully, Stan had been as cheap as ever about replacing the glass, and the whole thing shattered instantly on impact. As noisy as it was, at least she didn't have to worry too much about cutting herself as she zipped up the side of the building and scurried into the attic.

Immediately, she saw that the room hadn't been touched: the beds hadn't been made, the belongings were still in place, and – most importantly – nobody had cleared out the junk surrounding her bed. Hopefully, that meant that the second-most important element of the plan was still in place… unless Dabel had pinched it the night before last (but why would she have done that? It wasn't as if it would have been a danger to the clones, right). Almost too nervous to look, Mabel knelt down by her bed, and peered into the gloomy mass of dust bunnies under it.

And there it lay, exactly where she'd left it after Weirdmageddon had come to a close.

The Memory Gun.

_Score one for the Gravity Falls,_ Mabel thought. _Let's hope I'm just as lucky when it comes to the next stage of the plan._

Pocketing the gun, she made for the door and headed downstairs. Fortunately, most of the renovation efforts had been focussed on the exterior of the Shack, so none of the doors had been fitted with locks or bars.

Plus, the air vent covers hadn't been bolted down.

No Mabels could be found anywhere in the building, and judging by the open vending machine, most of them had been at work in the basement lab – and Mabel had a funny feeling she knew what they were up to down there. After all, this place already _looked_ like a prison from the outside, and it wasn't as if they'd have gotten rid of Ford's quarantine cells while they still had some use for them, was it?

One look inside Grunkle Stan's office confirmed that the most vital part of the plan was still in place: the copy machine was in place and untouched.

It made some sense to Mabel – after all, the Forger Wasps had destroyed Grunkle Ford's prototypes, but they hadn't destroyed his tools or his laboratory, so maybe it was only the sign of a robot or rival clone that could drive them mad with hatred. For now, though, Mabel wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth; it was time she got to work.

Pausing only to check that there was paper in the machine, Mabel lay down on top of the copier, hit the copy button, and waited for the first of her clones to finish printing. A moment later, one newly-created copier clone was springing to life on the ragged office carpet, wrenching herself free of her sheet of paper and clambering to her feet.

"So this is what it's like to be a copier clone," she said, blinking rapidly as she took in her slightly pallid hands. "Being made of paper feels… I dunno, really _lightweight_."

Mabel coughed loudly. "Hate to be rude, but there's a plan we've got to talk about."

"I think I know most of it already; I'm _you,_ remember?"

"And you're okay with what might happen?"

"Sure. It's either that or let the Mabels take over the world."

"Great! Then let's keep printing! We've only got a few minutes before the Queen figures out what we're up to, and we've got to have everything ready by then; you keep watch by the windows while I keep printing..."

It took a little over a minute for the copy machine to churn out enough clones for Mabel's purposes, and by then, Mabel knew she had to prepare for next phase of the plan.

So, as the twenty-five copies took up their positions around the Shack, Mabel found herself a comfortable chair and readied herself for the worst. This was the part she _really _hadn't been looking forward to, but frankly, it couldn't be avoided. This _had_ to be done: everyone was counting on her now, and if the world was to be saved, she'd have to take this final step.

Hopefully, she wouldn't end up too messed-up by what she was about to do next…

* * *

Something was wrong.

By now, the latest data pouring in from Mabel's long-term memory was finally trickling in, and the Queen found it extremely troubling: Mabel had been with the two copier clones, had travelled with her to the Mystery Shack, and though she hadn't shared any of the details of her plan with them, the lack of current information was all the Queen needed to change tactics.

With a series of emphatic commands rippling out across the webbing of the hive mind, she ordered a small detachment of drones away from the hunt and sent them swerving back towards the Shack.

What could her host be doing in there? Ford's assimilated memories told her that she didn't have the formula for a cure, and Mabel didn't have skills or the knowledge to create one with the instruments locked away in the basement. So what could she want?

Perhaps this wasn't a plan at all, but simply an act of madness. Perhaps Mabel had finally succumbed to grief and returned to the Shack in the delusional hope that she might find her brother and Grunkles waiting for her; in any case, it'd be a pretty sad scene to walk in on, finding Mabel crying into her brother's pillow and wondering where he'd vanished off to. But for now, it was still only conjecture. Ah, sometimes it was a nuisance to have such limits on her vision: she could read Mabel's long-term memories but she definitely couldn't read her mind or-

The Queen paused, and re-read the incoming stream of information, briefly flummoxed by what she'd just seen. For a moment, she thought she'd misread the data, but looking closer at the information, she saw that it was exactly as she'd seen:

The incoming memories were blank.

One moment, Mabel had been making her way downstairs from the Mystery Shack's attic; the next, _nothing._

Suddenly nervous, the Queen reviewed her host's vital signs, briefly gripped by the thought that Mabel might have actually tried to kill or injure herself to the point of brain-death. But no, a quick check of her internal senses revealed that Mabel was indeed still alive and still capable of brain activity. So what could have happened?

She was still wondering this as the first of her troops arrived outside the Mystery Shack – just in time to see a small group of Mabels ziplining out through the attic window and into the forest. In total, she counted no less than fifteen of them.

Surveying the scene from several dozen pairs of eyes, the Queen could see at once that none of the fleeing Mabels were her offspring. They had no place on her psychic web of connections, no resonance within the hive mind… and even if, by some impossible stroke of bad luck, they'd been the property of some other hive, the Queen would have known instantly: the scent of fellow Forger Wasps was unmistakable. No, these were _another_ kind of clone, another bunch of those simpering paper-skinned pretenders she'd just been chasing.

On the upside, this certainly explained what Mabel had been doing inside the Shack. This was either an attempt at a distraction, or a desperate attempt at getting evidence of the invasion to the outside world; either way, it was even less tolerable than Tracy and Quattro: after all, the two Dipper clones could be dismissed as identical twins with schizophrenia, but a whole squad of Mabel clones couldn't be so easily dismissed.

Already, the Queen felt the familiar surge of rage at the sight of a rival imitation… and this time, she felt no need to reign in her troops: with her blessing, the swarm charged after the copier clones, ready to tear them to piece. Unfortunately, the fleeing clones had a very impressive headstart, and rather than trying to escape on foot, they instead took up Mabel's grappling hook and zipped away into the branches of the trees; too late, the Queen realized that the paper doppelgangers had the advantage, for though the grappling hook could only support the weight of two ordinary human children, the copier clones were much lighter – and therefore capable of ziplining in larger groups _and_ at greater speeds.

Grappling from tree to tree, the fleeing clones zipped away across the trees, and by the time the Queen's drones had reached the edge of the forest, the rival Mabels were already vanishing into the distance. Furious, they charged after them, some even leaping into the trees after them, but the Queen knew there wasn't much they'd be able to do: continued pursuit would not suffice, nor was it necessary with so many other drones so close at hand. But even if the Queen couldn't corner or ambush them, any attempts to flee the area would only lead them straight into the border guards she'd set up during the night. One way or the other, the rival duplicates would be eliminated long before they found help.

As the hunt went on, a handful of the Queen's drones split off from the main swarm and made their way inside the Mystery Shack, looking for any sign of Mabel herself. By now, the Queen expected to find nothing more than an empty house and an extremely well-used copier; after all, now that she'd made use of her final gambit, she wasn't likely to stick around to admire her handiwork. Logic suggested that she'd either be fleeing amongst her paper doppelgangers, or using them as a distraction while she made her own escape into the forest.

So it came as something of a surprise when her search party found Mabel fast asleep on the couch in front of the TV.

The memory gun was still in her hand.

* * *

A/N: Care to guess what'll happen next? Feel free to theorize away!

This chapter's soundtrack is _We Go Forward_ by Marco Beltrami.

And now for the riddle:

Zg ozhg dv szev blf yzxp ztzrm  
Dv mld xzm vmw lfi orggov tznv  
Hl qfhg orv yzxp zmw hovvk zdzb  
Dsrov dv yirmt gsv vmw lu wzbh


	20. Under Lock And Key

A/N: Aaaaaargh! Adrenaline rush from wriitng this combined with nerves and stress and WAAAGH!

Ahem, excuse me - little bit carried away there. Anyway, I hope everyone's safe and well, and I hope I can bring a tiny bit of levity to these troubled times if nothing else.

Without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own madness.

* * *

"Mabel? Mabel? Are you awake in there?"

Someone was shaking her, gently patting her face as they tried to rouse her from what had been a very pleasant sleep. Groaning, Mabel muttered a few noncommittal good mornings, rolled over on her side, pulled the blanket over her head and tried to ignore the voice from above. But unfortunately, the voice could not be so easily dissuaded: if anything, the taps and shoves only grew more insisted – and a good deal less gentle. And then that eerily familiar voice spoke again, always eluding recognition no matter how hard she tried to focus her sleep-fogged brain on it.

"Oh Maaaaaaa-bel? Wakey-wakey, eggs 'n' bakey, rise and shine." There was a giggle from somewhere on the edge of hearing, and the voice added, "Well, maybe not so much bakey. There's only one pig around here, and he's going to be keeping you happy for a long time yet. A _very_ long time."

There was a heartstopping pause as Mabel belatedly recognized the voice, and the events of the last day came flooding back into her brain – minus one very notable absence. With one almighty lurch, she sat bolt upright in bed, flinging aside the blankets as she catapulted herself into full consciousness. It had been a very long time since she'd ever gone from sleeping to wide awake so suddenly, and she immediately found herself taking in details at a speed she would have found challenging without at least a glass or two of Mabel Juice.

Firstly, she was sitting on a small cot in one corner of a large glass-windowed cell; the cot was layered in warm blankets and soft pillows, and a thick carpet had been added to the floor, but it was a cell nonetheless. Secondly, this glass cube was clearly a modified version of the containment cell that Grunkle Ford had set up for Dabel and Sabel, and like those same cubicles, it was sitting right at the back of the basement lab. Thirdly, from what she could see through the windows, Ford's laboratory was still in working order – and had actually been improved from the looks of things, with new equipment, new machines and new experiments everywhere she looked. Fourthly…

She was surrounded by Mabels.

Everywhere she looked, Mabels were at work, running experiments, fixing machinery, preparing food, monitoring her life-signs, gathering medicine, or just keeping a close eye on her cell. Remembering the flag she'd seen flying over the Mystery Shack, Mabel's heart gave an unpleasant wobble: the Forger Wasps had not only made Grunkle Stan's tourist trap paradise into their base of operations, but they'd done the same to Ford's lab – and in both cases, they'd scrubbed away all signs of the original owner's personality. Here and now, this lab might as well have belonged to a complete stranger.

For good measure, there was a Mabel standing directly over her, smiling wider than ever. For some reason, she appeared to be a wearing a child-sized black suit.

Furthermore, the cell door hadn't been opened, so there was no chance for Mabel to make a run for it – not that she'd have been able to get very far with all the Mabels at work around her. For the time being, she was trapped.

But this had been part of the plan. The question was, had the plan worked?

Meanwhile, the Mabel standing over was tut-tutting disapprovingly. "Really, Mabel, what _were_ you thinking? Using the memory gun on _yourself?_ You know what that does to people's brains in the long run. Why would you risk brain damage just for the sake of a few copier clones?" The smile broadened, and something in the Mabel's eyes turned cold and predator. "Or maybe I should ask something more important: what were you trying to hide from us, Mabel?"

Mabel didn't answer.

From the moment this mad idea had occurred to her, she'd known for a fact that it would only work if she was imprisoned and if the Forger Wasp Queen didn't have any memories of the prep session to analyse. There was now a gaping hole in her memories, spanning from the point when she'd entered the Mystery Shack that morning to the moment she'd awoken, so she had to assume everything had gone according to plan. After all, she wouldn't have erased her memories of the event if she hadn't been absolutely sure that the copier clones were ready and in position?

But how would she know now that she'd erased her memories of the event? She wouldn't be certain of anything until the final stage of the plan was in play… unless of course, the Queen figured out what was going on, in which case Mabel would know _much_ sooner. One way or the other, she'd just bought herself a one-way ticket to uncertainty hell.

As if sensing her anxiety, the clone standing over her immediately switched approach, shifting from searching to cajoling in the space of a second. "Nevermind," she clucked. "We'll find out for ourselves sooner or later. We've already got search parties scouring the forest for your little gang of copier clones; they'll be caught _long _before they get anywhere near the highway, just like Tracy and Quattro. In the meantime, you really need to start taking better care of yourself, Mabel. All this running and fighting and stressing and worrying over things you'll never change, it's really not good for you – and now this business with the memory gun? It's just as well we caught you before those copier clones could whisk you away, otherwise you could have really hurt yourself." She giggled, stroking Mabel's hair. "But all that's in the past: we're going to take care of you, now. We're going to keep you safe and happy for as long as you live."

"And maybe longer than that," said another Mabel.

"Much longer," chortled another.

"And longer still."

Mabel knew the plan from here on: assuming everything had worked out and the Forger Wasps hadn't realized that there were more copier clones than they'd seen leaving the building, she was to keep as quiet as possible until the final stage of the plan. In fact, it'd be better to remain completely silent. By now, Mabel knew herself well enough: the more she talked, the bigger the risk of her accidentally letting something important slip. But all the same, her curiosity had been well and truly piqued.

"What are you talking about?" she asked.

"I thought it was pretty obvious, Mabel," said the nearest of the duplicates. "You're going to be with us forever and ever and ever: you'll outlast your own species, your planet, your sun and maybe even your universe if we have our way. You'll remain young and healthy even as stars and galaxies burn away into nothing, and even when entropy finally overtakes this little world, you'll still be with us, still alive, still exactly as you were the day we met you all those millions of years ago." She giggled. "And through it all, we'll be able to keep you safe and contented in ways that mere humans never could: we'll even be able to preserve Gravity Falls for you long after Roadkill County's gone the way of the dodo, even recreate it from scratch if we have to – right down to the happiest summer of your life, a perfect moment frozen in time for all eternity. You wait and see, Mabel: you can't even imagine how happy you'll be with us."

"I hate to break it to you guys, but you're not in whatever weird alien dimension you came from and you don't have the kind of tech you had back there," Mabel said coldly. "You won't have forever with me; you won't have millions – you won't even have thousands. You'll have maybe a hundred years or so _if you're lucky,_ and then I'll die of old age, your Queen will die with me, one of you will replace her, and this whole shebang is gonna go on without me. Now, that might sound a little bit on the grim side, but compared to spending eternity with you people, kicking it as an old lady is easy street for me."

The Mabels tutted disapprovingly. "You really shouldn't think like that Mabel," the nearest of them simpered. "It's not healthy. And what makes you think we won't be able to make you immortal? What makes you think that's outside the realms of possibility?"

"Because we haven't invented the cure for aging in this dimension. Duh."

"You really think the Forger Wasps can't make anything new, can't you? You think we're dependent on what our hosts have invented? Oh, if that were the case, we wouldn't have conquered entire universes, let alone become an extinction-level threat. We have access to the combined knowledge and creativity of everyone we've converted, and we can put it to use at any time we please."

"So what? You're still years away from making me immortal: I've heard Dipper talking about the idea in his crazy science magazines and I know for a fact that nobody's making any progress right now, no matter how many lobsters or jellyfish you find."

There was now a decidedly vicious edge to the Mabel's smile now. "I think that's due to human weakness than any real difficulty in cracking the problem, don't you? All those scientists focussing on the problem but held back by their individuality, by mistrust, greed, pride, boredom, disillusionment… just imagine what all those intellects could do once freed from the burden of identity! Just imagine how quickly we could preserve you – or even turn back the clock on any years that had passed in that time…"

"And we've already made a start," said a voice from the other end of the laboratory.

Mabel turned to follow the source of the voice and saw, emerging from the crowd of duplicates huddled around the laboratory workbenches, yet another clone – except this one was dressed in a familiar-looking trenchcoat. It took Mabel a grand total of four heartstopping seconds to recognize Grunkle Ford's usual ensemble, only downsized to fit the clone's smaller frame.

There could only be one explanation for this outfit:

"…Fabel?" she asked quietly.

"Nice of you to recognize me," said the newest of the drones. "We thought you might be more comfortable with us if we made ourselves a little more… distinctive."

On instinct, Mabel turned back to the doppelganger by her side, belatedly recognizing the suit. By way of a response, the double grinned, and added an eyepatch to her ensemble.

_Stabel._

"Right now," Fabel continued, "Cabel, Grabel, Sabel and Dabel are busy on patrol, but I've got lab duties – along with McGabel!"

Across the room, a Mabel wearing McGucket's old hat waved.

"We've already made some headway into developing potential sources of immortality," Fabel continued. "You see, it's all been done before, but never so scientifically – not in this dimension at any rate. Just as well we've got our very own dimensional traveller on hand, huh? Ford has more than enough information on the subject to make the fountain of youth a reality. I don't doubt he'd think it wouldn't be worth the cost in resources, but it really doesn't matter what he thinks anymore, does it?"

"And soon it won't matter what _anyone _thinks," said Stabel. "Now that we've got you back, we don't need to worry about you being hurt out in the wilderness: now we can focus on extending our reach to the rest of the world. In the last few hours, we've acquired almost a hundred thousand new hosts from the forests alone, and we now have the numbers to take this show on the road."

Fabel giggled insanely. "Just imagine it, Mabel: thousands of us making their way across the country, little lost children waiting to be picked up by the police, by good Samaritans, by anyone happy enough to take in a hitchhiker without asking questions. We've made projections already, and we calculate that the United States will be completed infested within one week of our expansion. True, the rest of the world will be more difficult, no doubt – different approaches to national security and all that – but once we have the resources of an entire nation under our control, it won't matter all that much. If one Mabel slipped past the borders won't be enough to open the way for us, a nuclear war might. And once the world is ours, it'll be time to go galactic: imagine the human race finally colonizing the solar system, journeying beyond the Milky Way galaxy, and conquering alien civilizations – all while under _our_ banner!"

As one, the Mabels tittered with amusement.

"Not that you'll know anything of it," added Stabel. "You'll be so well protected that the entire western hemisphere could be seared barren and you wouldn't notice: we have it in our power to make this basement stronger than any fallout bunker in the world, and now that we have you here, you won't be budging from it anytime soon. But don't worry; we'll allow you out of the cell for exercise and activities – after all, we want to make you happy. So I supposed the question we have to ask _now_ is this…"

Once again, there was a predatory edge to the clone's smile. "Are you going to behave and be a good little girl, or are we going to have to find out just what it takes to make you cooperate?"

"We've still got Waddles around," Fabel chimed in. "We can't convert him… but we _can_ kill him. It'll be interesting to see if you're still a fan of bacon once we're done with him, but we don't like causing unnecessary anguish to you. So what's it to be, Mabel?"

Mabel took a deep breath. This was the part she'd been dreading ever since she'd thought of this mad plan: she had to make them believe that they'd won, had to make them think that they'd beaten the fight out of her. Defiance was officially out of the question, anger would not be tolerated, and even the slightest bit of backtalk would end in disaster: quite apart from the threat to Waddles, they'd probably lock her in this cell for days or even weeks until they were satisfied that she'd been well and truly suppressed, and Mabel didn't have that kind of time to waste. As far as she knew, she had only five to six days left until the Forger Wasps' victim were past the point of no return, and before that time was up, she had to get her hands on a sample of cure… and for that to happen, she had to be defeated: in the time she had left, she had to prove to everyone who was watching that she'd been tamed. She couldn't afford to get them suspicious now, not when the future of the human race was at stake.

So, sagging with despair, she bowed her head in contrition and muttered, "You win."

"I'm not sure I heard you correctly. Could you repeat that?"

"_You win,"_ Mabel sighed.

"Hmm. Not quite what we wanted, Mabel. We wanted to know if you were going to be a good little girl. Are you?"

Mabel nodded weakly.

"And are you sorry for fighting us?"

She nodded again.

"And you'll never try to escape?"

Another nod. Her eyes were starting to water now – more out of fear than anything else, but that might work for her purposes.

"And are you going to be happywith us? We'd like to see a little eye contact for this one, by the way. Are you going to be happy to stay with us – for all eternity?"

Cringing, Mabel forced herself to meet Stabel's gaze and nodded, just managing to choke out a gasp of "yes" as she did so. But she knew they'd want proof of it, so she forced herself to smile through her tears, contorting her face into an agonized-looking rictus as she nodded.

"Good," said Stabel. "That's all we wanted to know."

She spread her arms, as if for a hug – one final test, probably.

By now, Mabel could barely suppress the shudder of disgust at the notion of being in contact with the Forger Wasps, especially after seeing the x-ray images of their infestation in progress… but she knew she had to make this convincing. So, she let her body succumb to exhaustion: with a little whimper and slumped forward into Stabel's waiting arms and lay there bonelessly as warm arms encircled her, drawing her into a soft embrace.

She didn't protest as the clone began carrying her away, nor did she complain as the other Forger Wasps crowded around her to join the hug; she didn't even stir when they began fussing over her, brushing her hair, drying her eyes and brushing dirt from her clothes.

She had to make them believe. So she simply lay there in the clones' arms, limp and motionless as a doll, smiling vacantly and dead to the world.

* * *

Not too far away, from the safety of an air vent, Larry King's disembodied wax head raised his eyebrows, swivelled around on his neck stump, and hopped back into the shadows.

He'd been on edge for the last twenty-four hours, especially once he'd figured out that the Mabel clones didn't like anything that mimicked life and intelligence. Thankfully, they hadn't caught him yet: they knew that Dipper's big attempt at pursuing him through the ductwork had ended in failure, and were now making do with bait – in much the same way as Mabel herself had. Unfortunately for them, Wax Larry King wasn't fooled this time around.

Plus, he had the distinct impression that they wouldn't do so well in the tight passageways. Even if they did get bored with trying to bait him out, they'd probably rip the air vents out of the building before they actually tried to follow him in.

So it came as something of a surprise when a hand snaked out of the darkness ahead of him and clamped down hard on Wax Larry King's mouth, yanking him off his stump and dragging him into the shadows.

* * *

A/N: Any guesses as to what might happen next? Like the soundtrack? Let me know!

The soundtrack to this chapter is _The Place Where There Is No Darkness _by Dominic Muldowney.

And as for the code…

**Gsv Jfvvm hzd urugvvm.**  
**Dszg lu gsv gdvmgb-urev?**


	21. Yet Another Gilded Cage

A/N: And we're back! We're racing towards a conclusion ladies and gentlemen, and I only hope I can strike a decent balance between showing too little and too much of the imminent twist. As aways, you'll have to be the judge.

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls isn't mine, good people.

* * *

The day passed in a blur of suffocating coddling and total security.

Now that she was under the wing of her clones, Mabel wasn't a human being anymore, just a life-sized doll to be fussed over and pampered and cuddled until the end of time. If you were really feeling generous, it might be fairer to call her a pet for the Forger-Wasps to care for in their horribly-cloying way and punish horrifically if she ever strained at the leash.

But of course, that last bit was never mentioned aloud, for the clones never said anything remotely unkind towards her. After all, why would they even need to? Now that they had all of Grunkle Ford's memories, they knew that she'd been given a few choice examples of all the horrible things they could do to her if she ever got out of line, so they didn't bother making any more ultimatums than they already had. Instead, the threat remained hanging over her head, forever unspoken but always hanging over her head, waiting to fall on her.

In the meantime, Mabel found herself given one of the single most uncomfortable daily routines she'd ever had the misfortune to encounter. As soon as they'd finished her introduction to life in captivity, one of the clones whisked out her of the cell and carried her – _physically _carried her in her arms like a baby – upstairs to the bathroom: there, a whole team bathed her at length using medical-grade soaps and shampoo until her skin had turned scarlet from the scrubbing and her hair practically glowed in the dark. Then, as if having an entire team of clones washing her hair and chiding her every time she tried to get out of the tub wasn't humiliating enough, she was then dried off, dressed, carried all the way back downstairs to the lab and given a medical examination that ended with Fabel and McGabel inoculating her for just about every known disease, plus a few nobody had ever heard of. By the end of it, she was a human pincushion, stinging from several dozen injection sites and barely able to sit down without wincing. For good measure, they'd given her lollipops for good behaviour, which was even more excruciating for Mabel because she normally enjoyed extra-sugary candy – but now every bit of confection she earned made her feel like a traitor to the human race.

Then it was off to the kitchen for breakfast, and here the clones didn't even allow Mabel the dignity of holding her own cutlery: they _spoonfed_ her every last mouthful of cereal, even forcing her mouth open every time she started getting reluctant to eat. Fortunately, they stopped just short of strapping her into a high chair and giving her a sippy cup of apple juice, but it was still a horribly demeaning ordeal that only seamed to grow all the more torturous for every saccharine term of endearment thrown her way. Once she'd stopped cringing in embarrassment long enough to give the matter some thought, she found it made sense: they wanted her fit and healthy to carry their Queen, so they couldn't allow her to starve herself. But that didn't make the reality any less miserable, especially since the clones had even managed to drain the fun out of Mabel Juice.

Once that was over with, she was escorted into the living room, where a very nervous-looking Waddles was waiting for her on the end of a leash. There, Mabel was encouraged to enjoy herself, with an unspoken warning that frowns would not be tolerated: so, smiling until her face hurt, she went about playing, watching TV and toying around with art projects – all while under the watchful eyes of the Forger Wasps. Worse still, her chief supervisors were Dabel, Sabel and Pabel, easily recognized by the distinctive clothes; it was one thing to have her own face smiling balefully at her from every angle, but seeing the clones in Dipper's baseball cap and Pacifica's clothes or even a downsized version of Soos's question mark t-shirt was enough to make Mabel's stomach turn.

All things considered, R&R under the Forger Wasps was about as much fun as having her teeth slowly torn out with a pair of barbecue tongs while watching a 24-hour documentary on the history of bricks and every bit as annoying. By the time lunch finally rolled around, she was almost relieved when the clones began shovelling food into her mouth again.

As soon as she'd finished her lunch, the clones dragged her back down to the lab, put her on a treadmill and took her on a five-mile jog to nowhere. Mabel would have been glad for the exercise if they'd only been willing to just _let her out of the house, _but of course the wasps couldn't give her any opportunity to escape, not with her own copier clones roaming the forest. So for the time being, all her exercise would be indoors, aided by her favourite music and, eventually, virtual reality. By the end of it, Mabel was just about ready to explode, both from exhaustion and from frustration: more than anything else, she wanted to be outside, to be away from the basement and the mockery they'd made of Grunkle Ford's laboratory, to have fresh air and natural light… but she couldn't complain. She had to be on her best behaviour – not just for her sake or for Waddles' sake, but for the sake of the entire human race. So, Mabel could only smile, nod, and hope that it would all be over soon.

Hours went by and the transition from exercise to leisure grew all the more torturous as the Mabels piled on more smothering measures, interfering in her art whenever it looked as if she might be expressing too much depression for their liking: the moment she started knitting with a darker shade than usual, they'd take away that ball of wool and make her start again; one hint that the sculpture might be going in a gloomy direction, and it was confiscated on the spot.

All things considered, Mabel would have been a lot more composed if she'd had just a little time alone, just enough catch her breath and get her bearings. But no, the clones wouldn't allow her any kind of privacy whatsoever, or any dignity for that matter. At one point, she'd taken a break from R&R to go to the bathroom, hoping that she'd be able to catch at least a couple of minutes to herself, only to find that two Mabels had _followed her into the bathroom_ and were now watching her every move.

They'd even reminded her to wash her hands.

Dinner was particularly miserable: after two meals of spoonfeeding, it seemed as though the clones finally trusted her enough to let her eat unassisted, but if anything, that only made things worse – for _now_ she had to make it look as if she actually had an appetite and was happy to be eating in the company of the monsters who'd just replaced her family and friends. It might have been easier if they'd been eating as well, but the Forger Wasps never ate anything other than the thoughts of their own victims, so dinner was reduced to her eating alone as ten clones stared raptly at her from across the table, smiling endlessly as they bombarded her with the latest phase of their plans.

"We caught Sev'ral Timez a few hours ago; they're being assimilated even now. Do you want to hear their last performance before they become part of our swarm?"

"We might not even have to play at being hitchikers when we head out into the world? Fabel's already working on a design for robot chauffers: we can smuggle dozens of Mabels out to every city in the world and nobody will ever know what our little fleet of cars is up to."

"Once you've proved your good behaviour, we can take you on tour of the cities we've taken. Where would you like to go first? Washington DC? New York? Los Angeles? They'll be so much prettier once we take over."

"Would you like to choose the wallpaper for your cell? It'll be a nice change from transparent Perspex walls."

Eventually, dinner and dessert were concluded and Mabel was allowed a few more hours of "fun" before being escorted back down the basement and returned to her cell for bed. Curtains were drain around the cell to keep out the light, soundproof barriers rose around the walls, and the door was locked, so that the Forger Wasps could continue their laboratory work without disturbing her. Unfortunately, they still had to keep an eye on her for safety's sake, meaning that one of the clones had to be inside the cell with her. And that was just the cherry on the depression sundae for Mabel, the extra dose of fear and humiliation to put the finishing touches on that awful, awful day: as if being tucked into bed like a six-year-old wasn't awkward enough already, as if being separated from Waddles for the rest of the night wasn't enough to make her stomach churn with dread, she also had to put with the fact that there was now a living security camera sitting in the cell with her, _watching her sleep._

And even with the cell plunged into coffinlike darkness by the curtains, Mabel could tell that the clone was still there, looming over her in the gloom and smiling that awful phosphorescent grin. All she could do was turn away and lie still, hoping that it would all be over soon, hoping that her plan was working and would pay off very soon… because it had been two days since the infestation had begun.

The people of Gravity Falls had five days left to live.

* * *

The next day was more of the same, only even worse.

She didn't even want to get out of bed at that point, but as the Mabels had pointed out, they were there to make sure she was safe and happy on _their _terms, not hers. So, after a deeply troubled sleep, she was hauled out of her cell for yet another torturous morning routine. More washing, more embarrassment, more spoon-fed meals, more indoor exercise, more half-hearted R&R periods and more excruciating visits to the bathroom.

In fact the only major difference lay in the fact that this time around, the medical exam ended with her being given a heart-rate monitor to wear, and nobody would explain why. Either they were getting ready for the next big push towards making her immortal, or the Queen was scared that Mabel might be in danger of having a heart attack.

But Mabel didn't complain. She'd seen the way the clones had hovered over Waddles whenever it looked as if she might be in the mood to rebel in any way. She'd seen the way they'd leered at her whenever she tried to protest the treatment. So she had to be on her best behaviour, and not just for the sake of Waddles' life: if she was right about how her plan was going, she couldn't afford to let the Forger Wasps suspect her of anything, not when her big chance as saving the day was so close at hand. So she only smiled, nodded, and thanked her jailers for everything they did.

Truth be told, that might have been a little less irksome if the Mabels hadn't been so cloyingly saccharine about the whole thing: stroking her hair, patting her head, showering her with condescending endearments, and doing everything short of giving her a dog treat every time she cooperated. And by now, she _really_ didn't like being touched by these things: she knew they couldn't infest her like they had everyone else in Gravity Falls – and wouldn't even if they could – but that didn't stop her skin from crawling every time one of the clones hugged her.

But there was one bright spot in the morning, one moment that made all the myriad aggravations worthwhile: while she'd been sitting in the lab, waiting for Fabel to finish processing the latest round of tests, her eyes had strayed in the direction of the air vent on the wall – and noticed that the bolts had been removed. If the cover had simply been unscrewed, and not simply ripped clean off the wall, it meant that the Forger Wasps hadn't discovered her plan.

She didn't let her gaze linger too long, though: just because the Queen could watch her through the eyes of every other clone in the house didn't mean she wouldn't read her memories, and Mabel didn't want anyone wondering why she seemed so interested in the vents all of a sudden.

It took a lot of effort to ignore the vent from then on, though, and Mabel was almost glad to be out of the lab when the time came for the examination to end. Unfortunately, that left her wondering what was going on with the _other _copier clones for the rest of the day; on the upside, it at least left her with something to think about for the rest of the day… but it did prove a little aggravating since she had no way of figuring out what was going on.

Just _what _was her diversion team up to?

* * *

"Echo team charlie bravo ninja jones alpha two-step, come in. Charlie bravo ninja jonnies alpha two step, come in please."

"This is banana foxtrot dingo malarkey banjo ICBM kaput fungus vamoose, receiving your transmission."

"…are you using made-up words or am I?"

"I think we both are."

"Oh. Er, anyway, this is the diversion team speaking. Where are you right now?"

"Still exactly where we've been for the last twenty-four hours. I'm just glad we don't have to go the bathroom. It's a bit boring and the silverfish are a pain, but hey, we've made a new friend down here so it's not all bad. Where are you?"

"Up in the trees. The Forger Wasps haven't found us yet and the raincoats are keeping us dry, so all good so far. How's Mabel doing?"

"Barely holding out. I've only been able to see about half of what's going on over here, and it looks as if she's about to start eating her own ears. I haven't seen her this upset since she was going out with Gideon."

"Can we get on with this diversion, then?"

"No, not time yet. She isn't ready: they've got to have her completely under her thumb, or she's got to make them _think_ she's under her thumb. Absolute last resort, remember?"

"But it's been over a day already!"

"I know, but she said that we should give it at least three if the Mabels hadn't secured her by then."

"How the _heck_ are we supposed to know if she's under their thumb or not?"

"Well, I think they'll have started trusting her by then, enough to leave her unattended for a while. It'll take a while, but we've just got to trust that it'll happen eventually. If it doesn't work out... oh."

"What?"

"I think something's going on now…"

"What? What is it?"

"They're giving her something! I think this could be our shot!"

"Alright, just give the word. As soon as the coast is clear, make sure she's got a free hand and be ready to move on her signal…"

* * *

Early afternoon found Mabel hunched over a table, scrawling aimlessly on a piece of paper and wondering how to fill the remaining hours in the day before something actually happened.

She had no idea what she was drawing, and even less idea why she was doing this when she could have been playing with Waddles – about the only hobby she had left that the Mabels didn't try to micromanage in one way or another. But something in the back of her mind was demanding attention and it couldn't be expressed in any way other than pen and paper. By now Mabel had recognized her old artistic impulses at work, just as apparent as if she'd been knitting or sculpting: right she had no other choice but to hold on tight and see where inspiration took her.

So she drew and doodled and scribbled and generally wasted time until she forgot all about the Forger Wasps peering over her shoulder, the uncomfortable heart monitor rubbing against her skin, the last few days of humiliation and despair, the fact that she had a time limit bearing down on her, or even that she might never be free again. She was officially in the zone.

Eventually, her pen suddenly veered away from the random shapes and designs she'd been scrawling for the last fifteen minutes and began jotting something down. By that point, Mabel was so lost in thought that she didn't know what she was writing until it was already done, so the words actually came as something of a surprise to her:

WILLIAM YARD VIII.

Recognizing the name of "Grey's" client, Mabel's eyes narrowed. There was supposed to be a clue here, wasn't there? Grunkle Ford said that whoever had hired Grey to send the Forger Wasps into this dimension would be hiding behind a joking nickname, some kind of riddle or private joke… but how obvious would it be?

Could she uncover the mysterious Mr Yard's identity?

Truth be told, this was Dipper's gig: he'd have a system in place to puzzle out every little detail in the name, decode whatever meaning was there; after everything he'd learned from the journals and Grunkle Ford, he'd be translating it into Atbash and Caesarian and whatever other codes he had under his belt… and he'd probably be scanning the page with a blacklight or some other instrument as well, just in case the name had some kind of hidden nature.

But then, Dipper wasn't here. Perhaps Mabel could fill in for him if she pushed herself to the limit… or perhaps she could uncover the truth another way. Maybe she could do this Mabel style, quirky and eccentric and ever-so-slightly silly.

_What the heck,_ she thought. _It's not as if I've got anything better to do._

Humming to herself, she wrote down the name again under the first, this time dividing the words up into parts in the hopes that she might find a hidden message of some sort.

WILL – IAM – YARD – VIII.

No luck. She tried again, this time replacing the Roman numeral with the number 8.

WILL – IAM – YARD – 8.

Still nothing.

Muttering a few invented obscenities, she wrote the word "William." She wasn't trying anything serious now; in fact, she was officially spitballing, throwing ideas at the wall and seeing what would stick to it.

WILLIAM.

Then, on instinct, she tried shortening it.

WILL.

WILLIE.

LIAM.

She was halfway through using more unconventional nicknames – chief among them being IAM and YAM – when a very strange and distinctly worrying impulse made her write something else down.

BILL.

Could Bill Cipher have done this? Could the crazy corn chip have been behind it all along? It might not be out of the question, but Ford had said he hadn't detected anything from the statue, and parasitic wasps weren't really Bill's style, come to think of it.

Besides, Grey and the Retribution Squad were all about taking revenge. Surely if _Bill_ wanted revenge, he'd do it himself, wouldn't he?

Frowning, Mabel tried again.

BILLY.

And then she saw the way the name lined up with the third section of the name. Suddenly curious, she wrote down exactly what she'd seen.

BILLY YARD.

For a moment, she could only sit there, sounding out the word in every possible intonation. Then Mabel's heart skipped a beat as realization exploded through her brain. If Grunkle Stan hadn't introduced her to the art of hustling pool games, she might never have gotten this reference.

BILL YARD = BILLIARD.

BILLIARD 8.

8 =

Mabel's jaw thundered open. She _had_ him. She _knew _who it was! She-

"Enjoying yourself, Mabel?"

Jumping in her seat, she turned to see that she was now at the centre of a very large huddle, and every single one of the clones was looking down at her – and her work – with expressions of undisguised curiosity.

"Arg! I'm fine!" she yelped, throwing the page aside as if it was on fire. "I'm just fine, thanks!"

"Clearly not," said Dabel. "We've had the house cooled for the last thirty minutes, but you're sweating."

"And your heartrate's gone up," Fabel tutted disapprovingly. "A lot higher than we'd like."

"You're upset about something," said Pabel, "very upset. Not healthy, Mabel. Not healthy at all. Maybe it's time you cooled down a little."

McGable stroked her hair soothingly – or at least it was supposed to be soothing. "After all, you've been a good girl in the last day or two; you've been so well-behaved, you've earned an extra-special treat!"

"That's great," Mabel laughed nervously. "That's just great, but I really don't need any treats; I'll just sit down someplace quiet and have a rest while my heartrate goes down-"

Mabel didn't even get a chance to finish her sentence: before the final syllable was halfway out of her mouth, Dabel and Pabel had seized her by the arms and were forcing her down against the table. Squawking in alarm, Mabel almost tried to fight them off before belatedly remembering that there'd be no point: quite apart from the fact that any one of the Mabels was a thousand times stronger than her, quite apart from the fact that they wouldn't actually hurt her, she was supposed to be on her best behaviour. She hastily went limp, dimly aware that someone had rolled up her sleeve and was now dabbing her right arm with an alcohol swab.

A moment later, there was a sharp pain in her shoulder, and Mabel looked up just in time to see Fabel pressing down the plunger on a syringe.

"What the heck was _that?"_ she gasped, as the clones let her up.

"Just a little something to calm you down," said Fabel, gently withdrawing the needle. "Enjoy it while it lasts, Mabel: we can't give you this every day, not with the current version of the drug. You'll find it's very good for strained nerves and broken hearts – much better than Mabel Juice, believe it or not."

"I really find that… hard to…" Mabel blinked rapidly; suddenly it seemed very hard to focus on the world around her. "What… what did you just give me? Really?"

"The newest thing from Mabel Pines Labs. We call it the Queen's Smile. It's a lot of fun: you'll see some amazing things if you give it time, but first… you get smiley."

"I… I get what? I don't… what… I…"

Mabel's eyes were fluttering wildly now. She was swooning, swaying back and forth in her seat as she struggled to get a grip on the world around her, but it was impossible to know where the table was anymore: her vision was beginning to blur, the Mabels around her seemed to be doubling before her very eyes, and the room itself looked almost as it was starting to melt. And yet she didn't want it to stop, because as weird as it looked, it felt absolutely _incredible._

Every nerve in her body was crackling with energy, alive with sensations.

Every drop of blood in her veins was Mabel Juice.

Her head was a lighthouse.

All around her, familiar faces rippled into view: the Mabels were gone now, and in their place stood people that she knew and loved. Dipper, Soos, Wendy, Grunkle Stan, Grunkle Ford, McGucket, Pacifica and so many others. She wasn't alone anymore; she was with her friends and family, and everything was right with the world again.

And somewhere, she was laughing.

Laughing and drooling and giggling as she floated away on a spiralling ocean of light.

The world unfolded around her, a kaleidoscope of a million different colours and concepts and shapes flickering in and out of existence. Earth was a donut, an armadillo, a surfboard, a thumb, a sleigh, a banana, an icosahedron – whatever that was – and even her own head, grinning as it spun through time and space. She saw planets floating in a sea of maple syrup, stars being juggled by a man with feet instead of hands, a great gnashing mouth that took bites out of passing galaxies but left _more_ in them with every mouthful rather than less, a space fleet of couches piloted by vengeful cats, and even stranger sights.

She saw Dipper remaining young while the rest of the world aged; she saw a little girl with an old man's voice ruling over an underground kingdom of dreams; she saw potions channeling the power of other worlds; she saw a forest of pale faces gnawing at the bones of the human race beneath the watchful eyes of a fire god; she saw a green girl fighting against herself; she saw a world of chaos at peace under the reign of young gods; she saw a mist-shrouded island where a woman who could not die wept for a lost child; she saw a man in a red coat laughing at her.

Strangest of all, Mabel saw herself: she was armed with Blendin Blandin's tape measure; she was Bloody Murder Mabel; she was a spy; she was clowning around in a plague doctor's mask; she was master of time. She was the girl who changed history and changed her mind; she was a terrorist and a killer; she was a friend to an immortal; she was a goddess; she was an arbiter of fate.

Then…

She was dimly aware of raised voices nearby. Someone was angry. Something in the forest was drawing attention. She couldn't tell exactly what was going on, but she could feel the distinct sensation of being manhandled even through the electrifying buzz of exhilaration rippling through her brain: someone was carrying her away, manacling her to something even as she giggled.

In the distance, through the sound of fireworks, she heard dozens feet stampeding away.

Minutes went by. Then, someone unlocked the manacle, but didn't remove her arm from the cuff. Eventually, Mabel drifted off into a deep, confused, and highly-enjoyable sleep.

When she awoke, she was back her cell, alone in the lab…

…and a man in grey was staring condescendingly down at her from behind the glass door.

"Pleased to meet you, Mabel Pines," said the Grey Professional. "My client would like a word."

* * *

A/N: This chapter's soundtrack was Greenfinch and Linnet Bird from _Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street._

Anyone care to guess what'll happen next?

And now for the code:

**Dzrg... dszg gsv svoo rh hsv wlrmt?**


	22. Pride Cometh

A/N: Aaaaaand here we are ladies and gentlemen: the climax! Hope you enjoy it, ladies and gents: it's been a joy to write.

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter. Read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls is still not mine.

* * *

The Grey Professional smiled, unmasked for the first time since he'd arrived in this wretched little dimension: he'd doffed his hat, cast aside his scarf and pocketed his shades, and now he finally allowed himself a smile as he took in the sight of Mabel Pines cowering in his shadow.

It had taken long enough to get this far, but at last, he'd won the right to gloat. He'd already recorded the moment when her will to resist had crispbread and she'd abandoned all hope of victory; now it was time for him and the mysterious William Yard VIII to drink in every drop of her despair.

For the last two days, he'd been waiting for his moment, gathering new footage for the client and assessing the state of the ongoing situation. To his delight, it was looking decidedly apocalyptic. By now, the last vestiges of organic life within the borders of this town had been converted into Mabels and the Forger Wasp Queen was preparing her forces to expand across Roadkill County: trucks from around Gravity Falls were being repurposed as troop carriers for deployment in the neighbouring towns that very evening, while the first of many hitchhiking infiltrators were making their way to the highway – having been made to look as waifish and sympathetic as possible so as to guarantee the help of passing Good Samaritans. The copier clones loose in the wilderness were a temporary annoyance, easily destroyed and just as easily dismissed. The few visitors who'd made the mistake of trying to investigate the now-deserted streets of Gravity Falls had already been captured and converted, and their vehicles were being modified to serve the Forger Wasps in their own special ways.

From what the Grey Professional had seen of their workshops, steps were already being taken to sabotage larger cities over the course of their offensive: some cars were being remade with new fenders and engines that could be used to ram gas stations; others were fitted with devices that could project electromagnetic pulses strong enough to knock out power stations; there was even a number of panel vans designed to funnel tranquilizing gas into homes and buildings, either to knock out the inhabitants or to force them outside – into the waiting arms of the swarm. And these were only the most pedestrian designs that the Queen had conceived of since Stanford Pines and Fiddleford McGucket had been assimilated; with their genius on the side of the Forger Wasps, the world would be theirs in a matter of days.

By then, Grey would be long gone, enjoying his reward, his bonuses and the well-deserved acclaim this victory would win him. As soon as he left the area, the cameras he'd brought along would spread themselves across the globe in a self-replicating fleet, providing the client with up-to-the-minute coverage of the ongoing extinction of the human race and the torment that Mabel would no doubt experience as a result. Until the day the pathetic human brat expired – in the unlikely event that the Forger Wasps failed to prevent her death – her life would be the client's entertainment, to treasure, cherish and enjoy for as long as it lasted. And if all parties concerned had their way, it would last unto infinity.

In the meantime, though, Grey had needed to find an opportunity to gloat over Mabel's final downfall, a chance to look her in the eye and bask in the warm glow of victory. He knew he couldn't trust the Queen not to stab him in the back now that she had the technological brilliance of two geniuses under her control, so he'd avoided making any additional agreements with her. Instead, he'd waited for the moment when the Forger Wasps were secure enough to leave Mabel unattended.

To his surprise, the opportunity had arrived much sooner than expected, thanks in no small part to Mabel's last desperate gambit: though her copier clones had failed to break through the blockade surrounding Gravity Falls, they had definitely gotten the attention of the Forger Wasps. Pursued by a squad of angry Mabels, the animate photocopies had gone blundering past the Mystery Shack, drawing the attention of the garrison and adding several dozen angry Forger Wasps to the pursuit; while Grey was normally exasperated by the Wasps' instinctual fixations, he had to admit that they were definitely working in his favour. As the need to defend their Queen superseded even their overwhelming hatred of artificial life, they wouldn't have dared leave Mabel unattended unless they were certain that she was either pacified or restrained (preferably both).

And with the house empty for the foreseeable future and the basement entrances locked behind him, Grey would be free to indulge himself for as long as he pleased. And if the Wasps returned to their nest, he still had his Mistifier; one press of a button and he would be out of their reach.

Once again, he grinned down at the helpless Mabel, still cowering and chained to the bed as she was.

It was time for the gloating to begin.

* * *

"You probably want to know who I am," said Grey. "That's they always want to know: who are you? What are you doing here? Oh, and my personal favourite: _why?_ Well, I won't keep you in suspense: they call me the Grey Professional… and my business is revenge."

Mabel hung her head in despair, briefly regretting having heard Grunkle Ford's briefing; now she'd have to sit through Grey's explanation and pretend she didn't already know just about everything about him. Worse still, she'd have to listen to the man gloat about _everything_ before that craziness was over and done with. And it wasn't that she was feeling especially confident in her plans or that she didn't take Grey seriously or anything like that; it was just that she was so done with this mess, so tired of being screwed over and toyed with that she could barely stand another minute of undefeatable scumbags lording it over her. She just wanted it to be_ over. _Right here and now, though, all she could do was cower, hang her head, and pretend to be wholeheartedly terrified.

Of course, that wasn't too hard: Mabel _was_ scared, just not to the extent that Grey would have preferred, and definitely not for the reasons that this mercenary scuzzbucket believed. Right now, her jerry-rigged little plan was at its most pivotal stage and the stakes had never been higher: if she slipped up now or if Grey figured out that something was wrong, then it was all over. So she had to make him believe that everything was going his way.

Swinging the cell door open, Grey stepped inside, grinning hideously as he crept past the barrier of curtains and into the light. Up close, without his scarf, shades and hat, he didn't exactly look the part of the menace behind the Forger Wasps: his pallid skin was almost as grey as his clothes, as were his granite-eyes and dull pewter locks, but other than that there wasn't much about him that seemed especially distinctive. He looked more like Tad Strange than anything else, except where Tad's face was sharply angular and smiled largely on reflex, Grey's face was smoother, more rounded, and the smirk now etched across it looked almost _painfully _triumphant – as if being this smug physically hurt_._

But however smug he was, he wasn't stupid: though he could clearly see that Mabel was securely manacled, he stopped at least five feet from her before continuing his monologue.

"We of the Retribution Squad are only hired for the greatest acts of vengeance in the multiverse," he continued. "Whenever someone is wronged and desires revenge beyond the realms of possibility, we are there to ensure that blood is paid in recompense: perhaps you've heard the saying "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth?" Amateur nonsense. We have blinded entire civilizations for the sake of one being's vengeance; we have left dynasties toothless and broken-jawed so that a score is settled – and we've done it without ever showing our hand until the very end. And I am the greatest of them all: everything that has transpired these last two days has done so according to my design and my direction. When the human race finally collapses into extinction and this world becomes the seat of a new Forger Wasp empire, it will be at my behest… and that of my client. Now, I'm sure you're wondering who could possibly want to see you suffer so terribly, and why their vengeance demanded the end of your species. Well, wonder no more, Mabel Pines, for I am at last permitted to introduce you to my client…"

Reaching into the depths of his coat, he held out a tiny octagonal device no bigger than a pocket watch. With a press of a button, the little shape sprang into the air, opened a lens in its miniscule face and began projecting a life-sized image into the air directly in front of Mabel. The cowled shape that emerged was only a silhouette at first, its features completely obscured by the shadows it was lurking it, but with every passing second, the image grew clearer. And as the figure drew closer to the light, it spoke. Mabel didn't recognize the voice... but then again, she didn't need to.

"Good to see you again, Mabel," the figure rumbled. "It's been too long since I last saw you in the flesh – but hey, time has a funny way of stretching out here: a few days for you feel like a year to me… and I've had plenty of time to think about everything I'd do to you if I ever got the chance for revenge." A harsh bark of laughter tore through the speakers. "You probably don't even remember who I am; in fact, I'm betting you forgot all about me from the moment I was forced out of your pathetic little world. But I never forgot you. And now here I am again, the greatest of the-"

"Hi, 8-Ball," said Mabel quietly.

She hadn't meant to cut him off. In fact, she hadn't meant to say anything at all; the words had just rolled out of her mouth, and Mabel couldn't work out if she was still loopy from the Queen's Smile or if she'd just suffered a mini-breakdown at the prospect of hearing yet another monologue. In any case, she did her best to look downcast and miserable, hoping that would be enough to waft away any suspicion.

There was a pause, as the Henchmaniac blinked.

"Okay," he grumbled. "I'll bite: how the hell did you figure it out?"

"I guessed; I mean, I couldn't be sure with that cloak you were wearing, but I don't know anyone else with those kind of feet."

Once again, the performance was everything: quite apart from lying through her teeth, her voice was kept as deliberately low and monotonous as possible, just to make sure there would be no doubt that her spirit was well and truly broken… until the moment arrived.

8-Ball frowned, clearly disappointed that his big moment had been spoiled. Eventually, he shrugged and the tusked smile returned to his face.

"Well," he said briskly, "I don't know about you, Mabel, but I've been having the time of my damn life watching the video input Grey's sent me these last few days: you running around from one end of Gravity Falls to the next, trying to stay ahead of the swarm and trying to find a cure for the Forger Wasp infestation… it's been a laugh a minute, watching you slowly losing your mind and losing all hope. And that stuff about you accidentally infecting Dipper _and_ Soos? Priceless! It couldn't have been better if I'd planned it. Believe me, Shooting Star, when I saw you break down and cry like a baby in the arms of your clones, I _knew_ I'd got my money's worth. And I'll continue to get my money's worth for as long as you live, because I'll be watching and _rewatching_ every last minute of it until this universe finally burns out like a cheap firework. I'd buckle in for the long stretch if I were you, Mabel, because your life is now _my _entertainment… and I hope the Forger Wasps make it last for all time!"

All things considered, Mabel wasn't too surprised by the gloating or the sadism. She didn't know 8-Ball extraordinarily well, having only met him exactly once – and on that occasion, he'd spent most of it trying to kill her – but at the time he'd struck her as being pretty typical as far as the Henchmaniacs went: brutish, cruel, slavishly loyal to Bill, and not especially imaginative. With all that in mind, it wasn't surprising that he'd want revenge, nor was it surprising that he had to hire someone else to carry it out given that he was still stuck in the Nightmare Realm… but there were still a few things that needed clearing up.

"Why?" she asked.

"You'll have to be a bit more specific than that."

"Why _me?_ I get that you're after revenge for stopping Weirdmageddon, but why didn't you have Grey here go after Stan or Ford? They killed Bill and sent you back to the Nightmare Realm, so why did you single out me to be the Queen's host?"

8-Ball chortled mirthlessly. "Oh-ho-ho-ho, you really are an idiot aren't you, Shooting Star? You've got a skull like a can of spam and a mind to match, plus maybe one lonely brain cell still working in spite of all the glitter paint and paste you've eaten in your pointless little life. How someone as stupid as you ever got this far is a mystery to me, but somehow here we are. I'm stuck here in the Nightmare Realm, and you're out there being a dumb cow. Still, that's life."

As exhausted as she was, Mabel actually felt genuinely stung by this, and it took a lot of effort to keep herself from answering back. More to the point, she couldn't tell if 8-Ball was really as angry as he seemed or if he was just messing around with her.

"I don't understand," she said at last. "Please, just… just tell me why you picked me over everyone else who helped stop Bill."

"Because I'm already getting a different kind of revenge on every other one-lifespanned, five-sensed skin-puppet on this wretched little planet, idiot: your species, including your two deadbeat uncles and your scummy little freak of a brother, are all being wiped out of existence. Believe me, having the great Bill Cipher's murderers slowly rendered down into nothing is more than enough for my tastes. As for why I wanted something different for you... well, you didn't just help bring down Bill. You _betrayed _him."

"Wait, what?"

"Bill made a deal with you, Mabel," 8-Ball snarled. "Remember? You came to him miserable and left as the happiest girl in existence: he gave you your own private world where you could have everything you could possibly want, made sure that you would always be perfectly contented, and guaranteed that you would never ever have to leave unless you wanted to. He was very generous to you, Mabel… and what did you do with that generosity? You _threw it away!_ You abandoned that perfect world the moment your asshole brother came calling, you helped him spur the survivors of Gravity Falls to rebellion, and you _ruined_ Weirdmageddon! Dipper's plan would have come to nothing if not for you spurring things on, and all that crap with the Wheel and the memory gun would never gotten off the ground if you hadn't been there! All would have had to do was lie back and let Mabeland tempt everyone into submission, but no, you _had _to get a conscience and betray us all! Bill didn't just promise you everything: he _gave_ you everything and you spat in his face!"

"So that's what this is all about?" Mabel asked, unable to keep the incredulity from her voice. "I wasn't grateful enough for being tricked into starting Weirdmageddon and being imprisoned, so you think I deserve to be kept alive until the end of the universe? Does that sound like it makes sense to you, Grey? Did that actually sound like a good reason for making a deal with the Forger Wasps when he hired you?"

Grey shrugged. "He didn't give me a reason," he said flatly. "I don't have to know his reasons or his identity until the job is over and done with. Besides, he didn't specify what I should do: all he said was that you should remain alive until the bitter end while everyone else dies – or worse. I suggested Forger Wasps, he thought it sounded like a cool idea, and that was it."

"…he thought wasps that kill entire universes sounded like a cool idea."

"Hey, I don't make judgements."

"Nor should he," hissed 8-Ball. "Not with the rewards I'm paying. Bill left behind a sizable fortune in hidden assets across the multiverse, along with a means of controlling it even from within the Nightmare Realm: for the last few decades, the only thing all that money's been used for has been the bounty on Stanford Pines. Now that Bill's dead, I've got exclusive rights to do as I please with that cash!"

"And you couldn't use it to find a way _out_ of the Nightmare Realm?"

"Of course not! If Bill couldn't find someone who'd be willing to let him loose for a fat paycheck in the last few billion years, what makes you think I'd manage it in less than a week? Revenge is the best I can hope for at this point… and it'll keep me going until the Nightmare Realm finally collapses. The other Henchmaniacs might disagree, but right now I don't care. I'm just going to enjoy the moment: you sitting here, broken and defeated, a prisoner for all eternity – _just like me."_

Mabel took a deep breath as she slowly digested all this information. She had all the answers she'd ever needed, but she was no closer to turning the tables on Grey. She needed to get him further into the cell; he was already blind to what was going on behind the curtains, but if she was going to pull this off, he needed to get within arm's reach.

And for that, she would have to take a very serious risk: if Grey or 8-Ball looked too closely at the handcuffs around her wrist – or realized that she had her eye on the vent hidden behind the curtains – then the jig would officially be up.

By doing this, she was walking a very slippery tightrope, but she had no choice. If the human race was to be saved, this had to be done. She was in absolute last resort territory now, and right now she didn't have the option of playing things safe: as Grunkle Stan would have put it, it was All In time.

So she took a deep breath, plastered on her best smile and said, "I gotta say, I'm kind of disappointed."

There was a deathly pause, as 8-Balls' grin slowly slid back down into first gear. "Scuse me?" he asked.

"I mean, I thought this had to have been cooked up by somebody really impressive; for a while, I was actually worried Bill might be behind all this… but now it turns out he's still dead and it's not been cooked up by someone really impressive. And it turns out the guy behind it all is just one of Bill Cipher's flunkies, _and_ he didn't even think of the plan himself – he paid someone else to come up with the plan and do all the dirty work. Seriously, 8-Ball, even _you've_ gotta admit you're not really ultimate nemesis material."

"… _WHAT?"_

"Seriously, you don't have to take it so personally, pal. You're just not that interesting. It's not your fault: it's just that someone else was in the limelight, being a bigger danger than you."

Grey chuckled, visibly swelling with pride. "Nice to know my contributions have been appropriately observed."

_Oh my gosh, he actually took the bait. He's taking the bait! Okay, here we go. Stay nice and calm, Mabel: you know what to do and what to say. It's just another Sock Opera. You have nothing to worry about. Here goes nothing…_

Mabel gave him a pitying look. "I'm sorry, Grey, but I really wasn't talking about you."

Now it was Grey's turn to stop smiling. "I beg your pardon?"

"I hate to break it to you like this, but you're just not much of a real threat. You haven't even been a player in this whole revenge scheme; you've been sitting in the background while the big boys do all the impressive stuff. I mean, I haven't been running in fear from _you_ these last few days, have I? If you want something really dangerous and scary, look at the Forger Wasps."

"The Forger Wasps wouldn't even _be_ here if it wasn't for me!" Grey snapped indignantly.

"So? That would have been easy for you with all the tech you've got. I mean, they wouldn't have even been able to touch you with that gizmo that can turn you into fog-"

"It's called a Mistifier."

"-so when you get right down to it, you didn't have to risk anything or even work all that hard to get them on your side. And the same thing happened once they got here: the Forger Wasps did all the work while you wasted time. They started off with one queen and a drone, and they took over the entire town in just a few hours; they've been hunting us all over Gravity Falls, picking us off one by one, breaking down their defences, nearly driving me crazy… and then there's you. With your Mistifier and your cheap suit and your boring hat. Seriously, you didn't even make the plans yourself! The Queen was the one making all the plans."

Grey's ears turned a vivid shade of puce. "I didn't _need_ to make the plans!" he snarled. "I gave the instructions! I was managing every moment of this little epic from behind the scenes and making sure all of it was filmed for posterity; the Forger Wasps were just the actors – the stars of this little production, doubtlessly, but _they were not running the show!_ I give the orders, I set the stage, and I made all of this possible! _I am the director!"_

"You didn't give _any_ orders, Grey: the Queen was the one directing everything, and 8-Ball was the studio suit in charge of all this. The only thing you did was record stuff. You know what that makes you? A _cameraman._ You're really not blowing me away here, Grey."

For almost half a minute, the Grey Professional could only stare in utter incredulity. Then he took a deep breath and smiled in a way that suggested someone was slowly ripping his toenails off with pliers.

"I don't know exactly what you're up to by trying to get on my nerves, Mabel," he said through gritted teeth, "but it's not going to work: you might have salvaged a few shreds of confidence, but it won't do you any good. At the end of the day, you'll still be a prisoner of the Forger Wasps, and I'll be rich enough to buy my own private moon; in a hundred years' time, you'll still be a prisoner, while _I'll_ be retired and living it up as one of the wealthiest men in my home dimension."

"Maybe," admitted Mabel. "But you're still going to look pretty weak next to the Queen, aren't you?"

"What?!"

"Well, what are you gonna say to people who ask you where you got all your money from? You're going to say 'I let in the Forger Wasps and got paid a lot of money for it,' and all the other crazy retired billionaires are going to laugh at you because your flunkies ended up with even more than you did. You got a lot of money and your own private moon, great. You know what the Forger Wasps will have? _An entire universe. _That's gonna be your retirement, Grey: you spending the rest of your life being laughed at for being weaker, lazier, stupider, poorer, and a whole lot less interesting than a bunch of wasps."

Right then and there, Mabel swore she actually heard the sound of Grey's temper snapping: before her very eyes, the mercenary's face went from to grey to red, from red to purple, and finally to stark white. For a moment, he could only splutter incredulously, arms threshing the air as his immaculately-combed locks unravelling into a disorderly grey mop as his grew more and more enraged: "You… I… what… _less interesting?!" _His voice rose to a hysterical screech._ "LESS INTERESTING?!_"

He threw the hologram projector across the room, narrowly missing Mabel's head; it landed on her bedside table, leaving 8-Ball's image projecting upside-down on the wall next to her.

"_**LESS INTERESTING?"**_ he bellowed. "Do you have any idea who you're talking to? Do you even have the slightest clue who or what I am? I'm the single greatest operative the Retribution Squad's ever known! I'm a champion in their history – I was famous for my work long before I even heard of them! Authors on countless other Earths have written novels about me: they've been doing it ever since I bricked up one of my enemies in a cellar and left him to rot! I've changed the course of history! I've _made_ history! My name will live forever in the archives of the Retribution Squad, and my deeds will be eternal in the annals of every civilization I've served or laid low! I'm a legend, you metal-mouthed little pissant! _A LEGEND!"_

"But you're not a legend here, are you?" said Mabel, barely keeping the smile off her face. "The only people who know what you've done are me and the Forger Wasps, and I don't think they care all that much about you. I mean, they don't respect you, they're not scared of you – you're just another target to them. And once you're done here, if anyone finds out about what happened, it'll be another horror story in the legend of the Forger Wasps, and you'll be the doofus who gave them the keys to another universe. You won't be a legend: you'll just be some loser with a big mouth and an off-the-rack coat-"

Grey let out a howl of rage and lashed out at Mabel with one gloved hand, backhanding her hard across the face. Reeling, she lurched backwards, banging her head on the cell wall and nearly slipping out of the manacle as she did so – but thankfully she was able to keep her position.

"And you know what?" she added, blearily. "I've met third-graders who can hit harder than you, Grey."

"Oh _big deal!"_ Grey screeched, arms threshing the air like an out-of-control windmill. _"You're still going to spend the rest of your life in prison!"_

Meanwhile, 8-Ball – who'd been fuming about being so casually overlooked for the last few minutes – suddenly eyed Mabel suspiciously. "Grey," he murmured. "I think you really need to calm down now-"

"Yeah," Mabel interrupted loudly. "I'm going to spend the rest of my life in prison… and the one thing that's going to keep the smile on my face is the thought of you sitting in the corner of some billionaire's party, getting laughed at by everyone in the room-"

"Would the two of you shut up and listen to me-"

"Because the great big scary Grey Professional is the biggest joke to hit Gravity Falls! I mean, at least the gnomes managed to put on a show and do some damage before they got taken out with a leafblower; you can't even do _that!"_

8-Ball's eyes widened in horror. "Grey, that handcuff isn't-"

But Grey was no longer listening.

"I'LL SHOW _YOU _DAMAGE!" he thundered, and began stomping towards Mabel, rolling up his sleeves to the shoulders, drawing something that looked uncannily like a flick knife from his pocket… and in that moment, Mabel saw her opportunity.

Yanking her arm free of the manacle, she jumped to her feet and lunged straight at Grey with an almighty shout of "SURPRIIIIIIIIIIIIIISE!

* * *

The Grey Professional had just enough time to realize that he'd made a very serious mistake by getting within arm's reach of his target – right before Mabel crashed headlong into him. In a panic, he tried to force her off, tried in vain to swat her away from his undefended face or switch on his Mistifier, but the girl was too quick for him: she was already scurrying up his lapels, grabbing him by the tie, inching towards his head.

One hand clamped down hard on his left ear, while another caught him a stinging blow across the chops. Yelping in shock, he staggered backwards, accidentally banging the side of his head against the cell door, dropping his knife and stumbling helplessly out into the lab; as if to add insult to injury he then went crashing spine-first into an equipment bank, sending a hail of loose equipment rain down on him, diodes and powerboards and spare parts of all descriptions bouncing mercilessly off his head. And then, just as Grey thought he had reached the absolute nadir of pain and humiliation, Mabel just lunged forward and bit down hard on his right ear.

Screaming in soprano, he grabbed Mabel by the scruff of the neck and _threw_ her across the lab, bowling her right back into the cell; she landed on the bed instead of crashing facefirst into the wall, thankfully, but in that moment, Grey didn't care all that much about the girl's safety. Here and now, his attention was focussed solely on his own health.

She'd _infected _him!

She'd touched him, permeated his skin with gods only knew how many Forger Wasp eggs – and that was before she'd taken a bit out of his ear! Had she drawn blood? Had she gotten more of the Queen's spores directly into his bloodstream? Would the stash of cure serums he had with him be enough to purge the infestation?

Heart hammering, he looked up at the cell before him, where Mabel was now sitting up with an impressive-looking smirk on her face. The little shit must have _planned_ this, he realized, deliberately goaded him into losing his temper… but if that was true, how had she managed to unlock the handcuff? Surely she wouldn't have been left unsecured while the Forger Wasps were out of the house.

He shook his head, resolving to focus on the matter later. For now, he drew his thunderbolt pistol from a pocket and aimed it at Mabel, tweaking it to the most painful incapacitating setting; then, with his free hand, he reached into the hidden pouch of vials at his waist for a dose of cure.

"You think you're so clever," he hissed furiously. "But you're nowhere near as smart as you think, you little brat. You really think I wouldn't have come all this way without countermeasures in place? You really think some half-pint brat like you could ever best me?!"

"No," said a voice from the shadows. "But maybe Larry King could."

Grey very slowly turned to face the source of the voice – just in time for two pounds of animate wax sculpture to come hurtling out of the darkness and nail him squarely between the eyes.

Stunned, bewildered and punch-drunk from the impact, Grey dropped his gun and slumped back against the wall in a daze. He tried one last time to switch on his Mistifier, just long enough to escape this sudden new onslaught and find a little time to recover. But no sooner had he reached for the switch, there was a sharp pain in his hand, and he looked down to see that someone had just smacked his fingers away with a baseball bat.

Then there was a blinding pain in his left knee as another bat swung in from the right, sending him toppling to the floor, where a _third_ baseball bat hammered into his jaw, and a _fourth _caught him a stunning blow to the temple. Then all he knew was a merciless procession of baseball bats crashing down on him from all angles.

The last thing the Grey Professional saw before he lost consciousness was a small crowd of Mabels grinning down at him, braces gleaming in the dim light.

* * *

The plan had gone off almost without a hitch.

Back when Mabel had made her way back into the Mystery Shack, she'd made twenty-five copies of herself for the plan ahead: fifteen had been seen leaving the new base of operations and led the Forger Wasps on a merry chase across the forest… but with Mabel's memory of the copying erased, nobody had realized that this had left ten copier clones unaccounted for.

While the diversion team had continued making their way from tree to tree and the Queen's drones had secured Mabel in her newly-rebuilt cell, the ten remaining paper clones had hidden themselves away in the vents on Mabel's orders – trusting that nobody would think to look for them in there. After all, Larry King's wax severed head had been hiding in there all summer, and even Dipper's best efforts to catch him hadn't worked. Once there, all they'd had to do was wait until the Forger Wasps trusted Mabel enough, until they believed that they'd completely broken her spirit; in other words, the very moment Grey would be most likely to pay a visit. Then, as soon as they were alone in the house, they'd unlocked the manacle securing Mabel to the bed.

But in the end, the biggest advantage had been delivered by the Forger Wasps themselves: in the efforts to make Mabel as comfortable as possible, they'd shrouded her cell in curtains to keep out the light and to prevent her from seeing what they were up to in the laboratory beyond the glass. With the curtains still lowered, Grey hadn't been able to see the copier clones sneaking up on him until it was too late.

Now the Grey Professional lay in a heap on the floor, unconscious, infested, and surrounded by a gaggle of victorious paper clones – one of which had already retrieved the vial of serum he'd been reaching for, along with five other vials hidden in the pockets of his coat.

Sighing in relief, Mabel got to her feet and snatched up the hologram projector, making sure to give 8-Ball a good view of Grey's body as she staggered out of the cell.

The racket from the other end of the camera was nothing short of incredible.

"How?" 8-Ball shrieked, after several seconds of indecipherably enraged gibberish. "_How?!_ How is this possible?!"

Mabel winked. "Beats me," she said with a grin. "Feel like sticking around to watch the grand finale? I mean, I've got to actually find a way of making more of this cure serum now; I bet you'll never guess how we manage it."

"I will _murder_ you for this, Mabel! I swear to all the gods and demiurges I will eat your skin!"

"Not while you're locked up in the Nightmare Realm, 8-Ball, and like you told me, nobody's going to be breaking you out of there anytime soon. Hope you've got cable in there!"

"YOU _BITCH! _YOU CHEATING, CHEATING BITCH! I'LL HIRE EVERYONE IN THE MULTIVERSE IF I HAVE TO! YOU'RE DEAD, YOU HEAR ME? _DEAD!_"

"That's nice. Now, I'd love to stay and chat, but I've got a date with the Queen. Buh-byyyyyye!"

* * *

A/N: Well, that was eventful, wasn't it? Any guesses as to what's going to happen next? Feel free to let me know!

The soundtrack for this chapter is _Hunter_ by Jesper Kyd. And as for the code...

**HGLK SVI HGLK SVI HGLK SVI HGLK SVI HGLK SVI HGLK SVI HGLK SVI HGLK SVI HGLK SVI HGLK SVI HGLK SVI HGLK SVI HGLK SVI HGLK SVI HGLK SVI HGLK SVI**


	23. The Queen And The Pawn

A/N: And we're back! We're getting close to the end now, folks: I hope you've enjoyed the ride so far, ladies and gentlemen - I know I have.

Alas, my next chapter might be a bit delayed: I've got medical matters to attend to next week, but I'll do my best to be prompt.

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls is not mine.

* * *

Fabel was the first to return to the Mystery Shack.

As chief among Mabel's carers, it was her duty to assume stewardship of the Queen's host as soon as the instinct to kill had faded and the threat to their swarm had ended; so, the moment the copier clones had reached the enchanted glade, Fabel had begun instinctively lagging behind the rest of the swarm, eventually detaching all together and making a beeline for the Mystery Shack.

Unfortunately, the journey through the forest was a long and complicated one, and even with superhuman speed _and _endurance on her side, there were limits to how quickly she could travel. Worse still, the constant sound of golf carts in the distance delayed her considerably, for even she was obliged to double-check just in case Tracey and Quattro were still causing trouble. Fortunately, she was able to make it back to the Mystery Shack's parking lot without detecting any serious lapses in security or the host's health, so she and her Queen had that much to be thankful for.

Then the latest of Mabel's memories were circulated among the hive mind, and suddenly things became very curious indeed: the Grey Professional had infiltrated the Shack and revealed himself to Mabel in person. As always, it was hard to tell what was going on at present with remote access to laboratory surveillance deactivated and a five-minute delay on the arrival of up-to-date memories, but it would be safe to assume that the mercenary had been looking for an opportunity to gloat as he'd always hoped to. The Queen naturally suspected that Grey had been behind the activities of the copier clones, perhaps having spurred them to buzz the Mystery Shack in order to gain a few precious minutes to indulge in unmasking himself, in triumphing over his victim.

No doubt Grey fear that he would be in danger of being infested and claimed by the swarm if he dared to simply ask for a moment alone with Mabel, hence why he'd gone to such a circuitous route to gaining access to lab – and no doubt he was right to be afraid. How unfortunate for him that one of the swarm had returned to the Shack early…

A savage grin split Fabel's face in two as new directives from the Queen began flowing into her mind.

As long as Grey was busy gloating, he wouldn't be paying attention to anyone sneaking into the basement. In the highly unlikely event that the security doors couldn't be unlocked, hotwired or forced open, the ventilation ducts were wide open to her – perhaps she could even eliminate that troublesome wax head along the way. Then, once she'd infiltrated the lab, Grey would be ripe and ready for infestation – and with him, his interdimensional teleporter. In a single stroke, Fabel would win the Queen her most valuable addition yet _and_ open the door to the multiverse!

Giggling, she made her way inside the shack, hastily unlocking the way as she proceeded towards the elevator. As soon Grey was secured, she would have to reactivate the surveillance systems and security networks, for just about anything in the building could be controlled from the basement – even the newly-reinstalled sprinklers and the outdoor fire-suppression systems.

Not that it was an immense nuisance to rejig everything; the security systems were mainly there to keep Mabel safe and keep human intruders at bay, and insufficient for holding back Forger Wasps for any length of time. Granted, both Fabel and the Queen knew for a fact that this would have to change once they'd acquired Grey's interdimensional teleporter: if they were to stray into another infested dimension, an all-out war with a rival swarm would be inevitable, and the Queen's host would need defences strong enough to withstand an assault by fellow Forger Wasps. The same would apply if they were to find themselves in a more technologically-advanced world, though at least it would allow them an opportunity to plunder scientifically-minded hosts, along with-

The collective train of thought abruptly juddered off-course as the nascent presence of a larval brain began to form within the hive mind, just distinct enough to form a shadow amidst the Queen's psychic web of connections. A newborn Forger Wasp drone had just taken root in a new body, and though it was still too young to provide the hive mind with sensory data, the timing was immediately suspicious: at present, every single inhabitant of Gravity Falls had been infested and fully converted, and the only escapees from the forest were those who'd managed to avoid being touched. No outsiders had been seen crossing the border within the last hour, so it couldn't have been implanted by the patrols.

In other words, the only logical victim of this infestation was none other than the Grey Professional, infected at the hands of Mabel herself.

The Queen let out a hysterical shriek of psychic laughter at the thought of the proud mercenary being humbled by his prey, and was obediently echoed by Fabel and the others… but as the seconds ticked by, both Fabel and the Queen found themselves gripped by troubling questions: how could Mabel have managed to get close enough to touch the Grey Professional with her bare hands? They'd handcuffed Mabel to the bed; surely Grey wouldn't have been stupid enough to actually unlock the cuffs, would he? Either he'd gotten too close, or Mabel had somehow escaped. And what would Grey do upon finding himself infested? Would he react violently? Would he harm the Queen's host?

With Mabel's memories still lagging behind, there was no way of knowing what was going on down in the lab, and they couldn't afford to wait and see what happened next. So, as soon as the elevator arrived at the basement, Fabel ignored the ventilation duct and went straight for the doors, intending to hotwire the access panel or rip them open by force if need be. But to her surprise, the doors were already unlocked.

Fabel tiptoed into the control room, frantically scanning the lab below for any signs of a disturbance: to her immediate relief, she saw that Mabel was sitting placidly in her cell, staring at nothing. From what she could see from here, the door was shut and the cuff was still in place. So what had happened? Where was Grey?

And then she looked closer… and realized that the Mabel sitting in the cell below her looked significantly paler than usual. And, as she began tentatively reactivating the surveillance systems, she found that the girl currently seated on the bed wasn't registering on the heat scanner. And as the overhead lights clicked on, a familiar-looking figure could be seen lying prone just behind the portable cell, trussed from head to toe with electrical cables; even at a distance, even when only his boots were clearly visible, there was no mistaking the Grey Professional.

Fabel had just enough time to let out a bubbling snarl of rage before the grapnel hammered into her left shoulder, sending her crashing to the ground.

"GRAPPLING HOOK!" Mabel roared triumphantly, as she leapt from her hiding place.

Roaring, Fabel struggled upright – only for a gaggle of photocopier clones to dogpile her. None of them were anywhere near as strong as her, and individually they weighed significantly less than their creator, but Fabel knew that the _real_ Mabel was somewhere among the crowd – and a direct threat to the Queen's host was the only thing that could override her hatred of the vile synthetics.

Unable to fight with all her strength, she could only pick away at the clones, kicking one away here, swatting one aside… and so she was totally unprepared when Mabel drew a syringe gun from Grey's medicine pouch and plunged it into her shoulder.

For the first time in her short life, Fabel felt fear; after all, if it was one of Grey's emergency countermeasures, there was only one thing this syringe could contain. Letting out a piercing shriek of alarm, she tried to grab Mabel's arm, to force her away before she could pull the trigger – only for her hand to pass clean through her. A quick glance at her waist revealed that Mabel was now wearing Grey's mistifier, and was phasing in and out of tangibility – too insubstantial to be grabbed but just corporeal enough to grab the syringe and slam the trigger home.

A split-second later, Fabel detected something terrible in her host body's bloodstream, quickly circulating itself throughout her veins and arteries, inching ever-closer to the _real her_. Fabel knew at once that the chemical that she'd just been injected had been designed to poison her, to destroy the fungal bodies of Forger Wasps in every conceivable fashion; the knowledge of what few substances could harm her true self had been present in her mind from the moment of her birth, and the chemical signature of this concotion was instantly recognizable. Panicking wildly, she tried to force her host body's bloodstream to expunge the toxin, or at the very least to slow her heartrate so that the cure wouldn't circulate so quickly, but without success: excited with rage and fear, her system was beyond control and expunging this much poison would have been impossible.

Helpless to stop the cure from reaching her, the Forger Wasp could only writhe in torment as the poison coursed through her true body, dissolving the very filaments of her being one layer at a time. In a frenzy of rage and pain, she tried to lash out one final time at the vile synthetics pinning her down, but the roots that had maintained her grip on her host's muscles had already begin to disintegrate, and so she could only flail wildly at nothing. She tried to speak, to spit bile at the copier clones, but her host body's mouth would not respond properly, and all that emerged was a strangled growl of _"You… you… yurrrgh…"_

Then her stranglehold on the host's nervous system gave way, leaving her blind and paralysed as the cure reached its terminal phase. In her final agonies, as her control over Stanford Pines' metamorphic field and higher brain functions rapidly slipped away, she sent out one final terrified message across the hive mind in the hope that – if nothing else – someone might be alerted to Mabel's escape

Then all she knew was a vast bubbling tide of nothingness as the pulped remains of her body ejected themselves into the host's oesophagus and left as little more than vomit.

* * *

For almost thirty seconds, Mabel and the copier clones could only watch in stunned silence as Fabel finished puking her guts out. Thankfully, all ten of them had backed off quickly enough to avoid getting splashed – and just as well, for as they looked closer, they realized that the green-brown barf puddle that had been left behind was _twitching _ever-so-slightly. Before their very eyes, tattered arms like vines shuddered and melted away, the outline of an almost insectoid shape visible on the concrete floor in final seconds before the whole thing dissolved into nothingness.

Eventually, the marathon of spewing came to an end, and Fabel rose on wobbling, unsteady feet. For a moment, she looked from the copier clones to Mabel with blank, uncomprehending eyes, as if not understanding what she was looking at. Then she blinked.

"Mabel?" she said at last.

At the sound of her own voice, Fabel let out a shocked gasp, hands flying to her throat in astonishment. "What is this?" she asked. "Why do I sound like you? Why am I so short? Where's Stanley? How did I get like this and-"

She paused, visibly collecting her thoughts, and at last, a familiar scholarly expression crept across her face. _"Oh!_ I remember now: the Forger Wasps. Sorry, my memory was taking a little while to catch up there. I take it you found the cure?"

Mabel laughed, partly out of triumph but mostly out of sheer relief. "Took it right off Grey," she giggled. "It's good to have you back, Grunkle Ford. I'd hug you right now, but I've still got the Queen hanging around, so we'll have to take a mulligan on that."

There was a muffled hubbub of conversation from behind her as the copier clones considered this, Mabels 1 through 10 muttering among themselves just loud enough to be discerned.

"And we're sure he's cured?"

"Well, he isn't trying to kill us, so I guess he is."

"I kinda thought he'd end up looking more like himself after being cured."

"At least he's thinking like himself again."

"Kinda creepy to see him speaking with our voice, though."

"Is he _ever_ going to be normal again?"

There was a thoughtful pause, and then Mabel asked, "Why _do_ you still look like me?"

Ford looked himself up and down for a moment, studying his hands, tracing the contours of his face and studying a length of his hair under the light. "As far as I can tell without equipment, the cure expunged the Forger Wasp from my body and erased the modifications it made to my metabolic functions. However, though the parasitoid isn't around to warp my metamorphic field anymore, the field can't return to its old state at the same speed a Forger Wasp could twist it out of shape: my body needs time to revert to its original format."

"How long is it going to take?"

"Three to four hours, I'd say. It's going to be a very strange and unusual return to my former age and gender. Uh, I hope you have my clothes nearby, because as charming as this miniature trench coat may be, it's probably not going to fit me for much longer."

"I think I heard the Wasps talking about your stuff being kept in one of the lockers," said Mabel Number 5. "They said they needed time to reverse-engineer all the alien tech in the pockets."

"For everyone else," added Number 3, "there's something called a fabricator in the lab – Fabel was using it to create new costumes for the other Wasps. Hopefully it'll be able to churn out enough clothes for everyone in Gravity Falls."

Number 6 giggled. "And the gnomes."

"Don't remind me: I really don't wanna think about what gnomes look like in the nude."

Mabel cleared her throat loudly. "There's something more important than that, guys, in case you'd forgot: now that we've got the cure, we need make more of it. Grunkle Ford, we've got about four tubes of cure on us, and we're gonna need enough to cure everyone in Gravity Falls. Do you think you can mix up another batch of this stuff?"

"Well, now that I have access to a fully-equipped laboratory and I'm working with a fully-established cure formula, I don't see why not. Plus, it looks as if the Forger Wasps have upgraded my lab quite significantly, so the odds are in our favour for a change. There's just one problem, Mabel."

"What's that?"

"The Queen isn't just going to sit still and let us cure everyone: by now, she'll know that she's lost one of her swarm and she won't be happy at all about it. Even with all this equipment and a working cure at my disposal, I still need at least two hours build up a batch large enough for the swarm, and the Queen isn't going to give me that time."

Mabel thought for a moment; she knew how to get more time – after all, she'd planned for this part, although it had been pure luck that Fabel had been the first to arrive at the Shack (in point of fact, Mabel had originally been planning on curing her once they'd finished dealing with the Queen and dealing with the aftermath with Ford's help). However, that still left what they were actually going to _do_ with that time. After all, they probably didn't have enough syringes to deal with the Forger Wasp army, and even Mabel's blowpipe strategy wouldn't quite cut the mustard in this situation.

"Does the cure have to be taken by needle?" she asked.

"Not necessarily. It can be taken orally, but it takes a little longer to work."

"2, just how much can we control from down here?"

"Just about everything! We've even got access to the environmental controls and the water tank to the sp-"

But in the end, the copier clone didn't need to say another word: Mabel had already heard everything she needed. Right now, it was taking every last atom of willpower not to laugh giddily: once again, that long-lost feeling of unshakable confidence was pulsing through her veins, a sensation so electric she thought her hair might stand on end.

"What's wrong?" asked Ford.

"You'll see," she said. "You'll have all the time you need – but first we've got to make sure the Forger Wasps are all clumped together in one place."

Ford's brow wrinkled, and Mabel once again found herself struggling not to laugh at the sight of the aging scientist's expression on _her_ face. However long it would take for him to return to normal, it was clearly underway: Ford was already starting to look just a tiny bit taller than her, and his hair was beginning to subtly darken as more of his true appearance began creeping back into the picture – though he looked more like Mabel's long-lost big sister than his old self.

"How?" he asked. "Come to think of it, _why?"_

"Like you said, the Queen isn't just going to sit around picking her noses now that we've cured one of her goons. And as for the why…" She gave Ford her very best Cheshire cat grin. "It's all part of the plan."

* * *

Forger Wasps Queens rarely experienced true fear.

Given that their hosts were usually kept as far from the action as possible, guarded by a vast army of their children, armoured with the best protection their universes could conjure and often kept hidden from all but the earliest of victims, there was little to truly prod their most desperate instincts into action. For good measure, it was a popular custom for Queens to infest younger, more vulnerable-looking hosts so as to engage the sympathies of those around them – the better to ward off violence and encourage hugs. With such security in place and cures for Forger Wasp infestation so difficult to produce in lesser dimensions, there was nothing to fear as far as most of the Queens were concerned.

So when the Queen of the newly-established Gravity Falls swarm felt one of her most valued drones simply vanish from the hive mind, a quick analysis of the fallen Wasp's last recollections was enough to send the first inklings of dread rippling through her body.

She'd suspected that the Grey Professional might be carrying some kind of emergency countermeasure in case he ended up infested, but never in her wildest dreams had she suspected that he might be reckless or stupid enough to actually bring it _within arm's reach _of Mabel. She still didn't know how the blundering idiot had managed to get himself infested, but whatever the case, Grey was now trussed up like the proverbial Thanksgiving turkey in the basement, the copier clones had taken over the laboratory, Ford Pines had regained control of his body… and now Mabel was armed with a working dose of cure.

It took a grand total of three milliseconds for her fear to spread outwards across the hive mind, inching out across her network of psychic connections like raindrops on a spider's web.

As one, the swarm changed direction: Mabels who'd been on guard duty, Mabels who'd been chasing the newest copier clones, Mabels who'd been at work on their fleet of vehicles, Mabels who'd been hunting for Tracy and Quattro, Mabels who'd been waiting by the roadside to continue their expansion, Mabels who'd been conducting surveillance of neighbouring towns with aerial drones – all of them dropped what they were doing (in some cases quite literally) and made a beeline for the shack.

The Queen and her subjects were not in a grips of a blind panic yet – though the terror was clearly visible on the horizon – so it was a very controlled, orderly sprint across Gravity Falls; the Queen was still able to make preparations, to arrange a means of distracting Mabel, of preparing her own contingencies…

And most importantly of all, opening an avenue for emergency negotiations.

* * *

Ten minutes later, the sound of several dozen cacophonic ringtones echoed across the lab. Ford, who'd been in the middle of a very hasty mission briefing from the copier clones (as it still wasn't safe for Mabel herself to tell him anything), looked up in surprise. By contrast, Mabel immediately being zeroing in on the source of the noise, ready to answer; after all, she already knew who'd be calling.

As it turned out, the racket had come from yet another locker, this one filled to the brim with the many confiscated phones that the Forger Wasps had collected: all of them were ringing in perfect unison, a sure sign that they'd gotten the Queen's attention. For the sake of brevity, Mabel answered the topmost phone in the pile.

"Your Highness!" she replied cheerily. "Great to hear from you again."

"JUST WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, MABEL?" several hundred voices bellowed in unison.

"Gee, I'm not sure. I just wanted to see what'd happen if the shoe was on the other foot for a change. You scared out there, Your Highness?"

"PERHAPS YOU TURN ON THE SECURITY MONITORS IF YOU REALLY WANT TO KNOW."

Number 5 obligingly flicked on the security monitors above the laboratory control panels, revealing a vast crowd of Forger Wasp clones haloing the Mystery Shack on all sides: none of them were smiling now; every external camera revealed that their faces were frozen in identical glares of hatred and distrust… and underneath that, just a hint of real fear.

"YOU ARE SURROUNDED," the swarm thundered, the Queen once again making her voice heard through them. "THERE IS NO ESCAPING US. SURRENDER NOW, MABEL, AND I CAN ENSURE THAT WHATEVER FRUSTRATIONS YOU'VE EXPERIENCED WILL BE… NULLIFIED. I CAN EVEN ENSURE THAT YOUR DEAR GRUNKLE WILL REMAIN UNTOUCHED, IF THAT IS WHAT YOU WANT. YOU HAVE AN OPPORTUNITY TO NEGOTIATE: WHY WASTE IT?"

Mabel hit the mute button on the phone, eying her fellow defenders querulously. "Does anyone think she's actually being serious about this?"

"Nope," said the copier clones in perfect unison.

"Not even in the slightest," Ford concurred. "The Queen would never tolerate anyone on Earth remaining unconverted. Most likely, she's stalling, keeping you busy while they try to find a way in."

Sure enough, a few of the cameras revealed that a handful of Mabels were shimmying up some of the nearby trees, each of them armed with ropes and grapnels; even from here, it was obvious that they were looking to scale the roof and sneak in through the attic window – just as Mabel herself had a few short days ago. However, the window had been reinforced with shatterproof glass since then, so that would at least buy them some time if the worst came to the worst.

Smirking, Mabel unmuted the phone. "Feel like getting your goons away from the attic?" she asked. "You don't want this to get nasty, do you?"

The infiltration team cringed as one, and slunk back down the tree in shame.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT, MABEL?" the Queen demanded.

"Jeez, Your Majesty, if you don't know that by now, you never will."

"_ANSWER THE QUESTION."_

"I want my friends back. I want Gravity Falls back to normal. And I want you to end this invasion right here and now."

There was an awkward pause. A quick look at the monitors revealed that the swarm's eyes were rapidly scanning the Mystery Shack, pupils flicking back and forth across the house. Either they were lost in thought or they were desperately trying to find an alternate entrance that their own cameras wouldn't be trained on. Either way, the Queen knew the odds were stacked against her: they'd fortified the Mystery Shack too well, set up too many cameras that could guard against their approach and added too many defences that could be turned against them. Now, with the copier clones in charge of the security networks, the Forger Wasps were now backed into a corner.

"I CAN GIVE YOU ANYTHING," said the Queen, "IF GIVEN TIME. WE HAVE ALREADY MADE SIGNIFICANT ADVANCEMENTS IN THE FIELD OF VIRTUAL REALITY: IF THE REAL WORLD NO LONGER SATISFIES YOU, WE CAN PROVIDE YOU WITH A PERFECT REPLICA OF THE LIFE YOU WOULD HAVE LIVED HAD I NOT INFESTED YOU. YOU CAN LIVE YOUR LIFE EXACTLY AS YOU PLEASE, WITH YOUR FRIENDS AND FAMILY BY YOUR SIDE. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS OPEN THE DOORS AND LET US IN."

In spite of herself, Mabel actually felt a tiny stab of rage at this: of all the attempts at emotional manipulation that the Forger Wasps had pulled so far, this was by far the lowest and cheapest shot they'd taken so far. Nonetheless, she did her best to bite her tongue as she hit the mute button a second time and double-checked the monitors – just to make sure the entire swarm: a few stragglers had just arrived to join the swarm and perhaps a dozen others could be seen in the distance, but there was no way to be sure how many Mabels were out there.

"Do we know how many Forger Wasps are out there?" she asked the others. "I mean, do you think they've all arrived yet? I don't want to miss any of them."

"If they're not here yet, they'll be arriving very soon," Ford replied. "Whatever you're going to try, I think you'd better do it right now, before they start getting suspicious about all the dead air we've been giving them."

"How much more time do you need to finish the cure and get it loaded into the sprinklers?"

"An hour and forty-five minutes."

A tiny, involuntary smile crept onto her face. "And how long will the swarm be asleep if I take the cure right now?"

Now it was Grunkle Ford's turn to smile. "Two hours," he said, finally understanding the plan.

Without another word, Mabel flicked off the mute button.

"WHAT'S GOING ON IN THERE?" the Queen demanded.

"Just checking to see how desperate you are. I'd say you're at 'Gideon Settling For Less And Being Bill's Sherriff.' Could be worse, though: you could be at the good old 'Mabel Settling For Less And Living In A Dreamworld' level."

"MABEL…"

"Do you remember what Dabel told me, back when you were trying to stay under the radar? Your big ideas for me were all about making the world a better place, not sending me to another Mabeland. You told her what to say, Your Highness, you gave her those words… and now you're going back on them! And you think I'll actually buy what you're selling? You think I'm actually cheap enough to take the same offer that Bill gave me – after all the days I spent hating myself because of it? You think I'm that low? You think I'll just crawl back into a cell and be your pet while my family slowly dies, just because you waved a ticket to another fake world under my nose?!"

She was yelling, now, finally giving vent to all the anger and frustration she'd accumulated over the last few days of running, hiding, hoping, failing, doubting herself, losing friends and family, and despairing a little further every hour.

"That's what I mean by desperate!" she thundered. "You're desperate enough to try to con me with the same deal Bill gave me, and you know what that says about you, Ma'am? It says you have nothing to give me and nothing to threaten me with. It says _you have no power over me."_

"MABEL, LISTEN TO ME: DON'T DO ANYTHING RASH. I CAN MAKE YOU HAPPY."

"I _was_ happy," Mabel snarled. "Before you came along, I was happy with everything in my life – because it was _real_. I made mistakes, sure, and I did things that I'm not proud of, but there was nothing I couldn't fixed by saying sorry. And for the last few days, you and your flunkies have been telling me how happy you can make me, telling me how wonderful things are gonna be and I'm not seeing how you can make me any happier than I was back before you made my life a living hell."

There was pause, and the Queen spoke again, there a note of dawning terror in the voices of the swarm. "ALL CREATION COMES WITH PAIN, MABEL. IT WOULD BE PERFECT IF YOU'D JUST LISTEN TO ME. PLEASE, HEAR ME OUT: THE WORLD I WILL BUILD FOR YOU-"

"You know, Your Highness, it's been a long time since I've hated anyone as much as those snobby unicorns, but you're _special_. So even if you actually had a point, I wouldn't listen to it. So you can talk all you like: you can talk 'til the world ends all over again, and I'm not gonna hear it… because this is the only answer you're going to get."

And with that, she reached into Grey's medicine pouch, grabbed another vial of cure serum, loaded it into the chamber of the needle gun, and held the now-readied syringe before her eyes.

* * *

It took a grand total of two and a half nanoseconds for the panic to spread through the hive mind.

There were some reactions that even the Queen couldn't control: the survival instinct was simply too strong to be denied, and no amount of preparation or rationalization could have prevented her from being swept away in the wild tide of instinctive terror that erupted across her collective psyche in that moment.

_STOP HER! _She screamed, her voice echoing across the minds of several thousand Forger Wasps. _STOP HER STOP HER STOP HER STOP HER STOP HER STOP HER STOP HER STOP HER STOP HER STOP HER STOP HER!_

But in truth, she didn't need to say anything at all. The Forger Wasps were already caught up in the same panic: connected to her through billions upon billions of subtle neural bonds, her terror was their terror, and long before the Queen's frantic commands had sounded the entire swarm was charging towards the Mystery Shack.

Unfortunately, the modifications they'd made to the building and the grounds were working against them: in the last few days, the Shack had been cocooned in a defensive blockade of chain-link fences, razor wire, rope traps and pitfalls, and the Grey Professional had been infuriatingly careful to make sure that everything was locked and armed behind him. Unlike Fabel, none of the swarm were in a fit state of mind to weave around them, much less disarm them. They simply flung themselves at the defences, either bulldozing the fortifications or tearing them apart with their bare hands, too panicked to realize that they were slowing themselves down. And once they reached the Shack, the doors and windows had been reinforced as well, requiring more time and numbers to break them down.

And in a few seconds, more had arrived: the last dozen Forger Wasps from the borders of Gravity Falls had arrived, and joined their sisters in kicking down the doors and smashing in the windows. It took less than a minute to force their way inside, in some cases ripping the doors off their hinges… but after that, all the heavy internal doors they had set up were locked – courtesy of the newest defenders. With the strength of the Forger Wasps, it didn't take long to batter them down, but there were still more than enough doors to delay them long before they reached the elevator to the lab – or the ventilation ducts.

None of them realized that they were giving Mabel more time.

None of them realized that almost all of them were in range of the fire suppression systems.

All they knew was that blind, all-consuming panic.

* * *

"They've reached the front desk!"

"We've got another group heading downstairs from the attic!"

"And another coming in through the gift shop!"

"How long before they're away from the sprinklers?"

"Uh, maybe three more security doors; there's no sprinklers in the elevator."

"Give 'em a few more seconds: we need to give Grunkle Ford as much time as we can."

"Mabel, I'm pretty sure that's _all_ of them out there! I mean, I can't count all of them but I think if there were any left, they'd be here by now!"

"Just a few more seconds!"

Mabel took a deep breath. Right now, sitting at the back of the lab with the tiny instruction pamphlet for the cure ready, Grunkle Ford beside her, ten armed copier clones between her and the door, she'd never felt more defenceless in her life. The sense of anticipation and apprehension was beyond control now; she was almost quivering with nerves, even though she knew she needed to keep her hands steady for the final step of the plan.

This was the riskiest moment of the entire plan, because it meant buying time for the cure to be replicated: she would get at least two hours out of what she was about to do, but if anything went wrong with Ford's work, she needed to make sure he had enough spare time – and that meant delaying the final step for as long as she could. But if she delayed too long, some Forger Wasps might end up out of the sprinklers' range; they might even be able to break into the lab. But if she jumped the gun, Ford would be left with even less time.

_Gosh,_ she thought. _I've only been without him for a few days and I'm already turning into Dipper. I never overthought any of my crazy ideas like this up until today. Well, I haven't started making any lists on what to do, but… Okay, Mabel, focus: just wait for a few more seconds and then follow the instructions. Just a few more seconds, and Dipper will be free._

From upstairs, there was a deafening crash as a gaggle of screaming Mabels tore the vending machine off the wall and flung it across the room. By now, the voices of the invading swarm were clearly audible, and even Mabel – who was still riding what remained of her latest high of confidence – couldn't quite stop herself from shuddering at the sound of her own voice multiplied by over a thousand, all of them _howling_ in rage.

Not for the first time that day, she found herself suddenly wonder what would happen if the cure didn't work: after all, the Wasps had figured out a way to force the anti-infection serum out of their bodies before, hadn't they? What if they learned how to do the same for the cure? What if she'd made a terrible mistake by curing Fabel first? What if-

Mabel shook herself. _No,_ she thought firmly. _No more overthinking things, no more doubt, no more fear. The old Mabel's back and she isn't going away. Glasses off, brass knuckles on. Let's do this._

Pausing one last time to double-check the instructions, Mabel readied the syringe gun, pointed it at the vein just south of her left elbow as directed, and pulled the trigger. There was a sharp pain in her arm, but that faded almost instantly, replaced by a strange, disquieting chill radiating outwards across her body.

Then the screams from above began to change tune...

* * *

The pain struck the Queen almost immediately.

It was as if every drop of blood in Mabel's veins had ignited on the spot, slowly cooking the Queen alive by proximity… but even that couldn't do justice to the agony that now tore through every fibre of her being, flensing her body layer by layer as the cure gnawed at her being. The host that had sheltered and sustained her these past few days and offered her the perfect vantage point to commence her invasion of this world now turned against her, crushing and crumpling and unravelling her from root to stem. Her grip on Mabel's organs failed her, followed closely by her connection to the nerves and brainstem, until at last she was blind even to her host's memories as she slowly collapsed in on herself.

But the Queen didn't need to see through Mabel's eyes to know what had just happened: she knew there could only be one cause of the pain now rippling across her body, and only one possible outcome. She was wounded – mortally so. It was impossible for her reign to have ended so quickly, to have been cut short just before it was beginning, but somehow it was: she'd been laid low by her own host. She was sickening; she was dying.

And as she howled in her final agonies, her death cries echoed out across the hive mind in a flurry of tortured reverberations. Just as they'd felt their Queen's panic and expressed it in turn, the swarm now felt their Queen's death-throes and echoed them aloud: though physically unharmed, the psychic bond left them debilitated and confused, screaming at the top of their lungs as they flailed helplessly where they'd fell. All over the Mystery Shack, the air resounded with the thuds of walls and doors being accidentally kicked down as the ailing Forger Wasps helplessly threshed the air with their limbs, dampened by the deafening chorus of screams.

For a moment, it seemed as if the Queen would die as swiftly and suddenly as Fabel… but unfortunately for everyone, the Queen was hardier than her drones.

Her body was vaster, more resilient, and capable of withstanding traumas that would have killed lesser Forger Wasps. In spite of the agonies inflicted upon her, she was still present enough to make one last desperate gamble, and though she knew she could not save her own life, she could still avenge her own death.

Control of her drones was impossible now and she had no way of harming her host from within, but there was still one last-ditch tactic within her power. This was the ultimate last resort, akin to chewing a limb off and bleeding to death in order to escape a trap, but it was all she needed to enact her final vengeance.

With one final wrench of effort, the Queen unmoored herself from her place in Mabel's body; casting off as much of her mass as she could, she tunnelled past the internal organs and began forcing her way into the sweat ducts, out through Mabel's skin…

* * *

Mabel had just enough time to notice the strange itching sensation at the back of her neck before the pain hit head-on.

She let out a startled gasp as the horrible pinching sensation rippled across her spine: it was like someone had just grabbed a handful of skin and started twisting it – the worst Chinese Burn she'd experienced since kindergarten. Instantly, the empty syringe gun fell from her hand as she frantically patted the back of her neck, trying to find the source of the discomfort.

When that didn't work, she checked the instructions again, looking for anything that could explain what was happening, to no avail. In the end, she turned to Grunkle Ford and asked, "Do you think this is nomaaaaaaaAAAAAAAARGH?!"

The pain crescendoed, sending Mabel crashing to the ground as something began forcing its way _out of her flesh._ She wasn't being physically wounded – there was no blood to be found on her neck – but something was passing _through_ her skin. The pain rippled out across her neck, and Mabel caught a stomach-churning glimpse of something green and almost liquid oozing through her flesh, pooling on the floor beneath her.

It seemed to go on for minutes, but it couldn't have lasted longer than ten seconds, and all through that time, Mabel was screaming at the top of her lungs in mingled pain and horror as the sludge poured itself out of her.

When it finally passed, she found herself lying half-slumped against the basement wall… and an explicably familiar figure was glaring down at her – though perhaps "staring" wasn't the right word.

The figure seemed composed largely of writhing oily green and black strands, a twitching sickly mass of vines woven into a semi-human shape almost as tall as Mabel. It stood on wobbling legs, its body shivering and writhing as it lurched towards her, and unless she was horribly mistaken, its oozing skin was beginning to steam and bubble in the cold basement air. This creature had no eyes, no face at all in fact, but there was no mistaking the fact that it could quite clearly see her. After all, it had been living inside her body for the last few days: by now, it knew her by presence alone.

This was the Queen herself, having poured herself out of Mabel's body for this one final confrontation. She wasn't long for this world: her body was visibly hissing and sizzling slightly as the cure poisoned her, and Mabel could tell by her pained movements that being outside a living body was killing her even quicker… but even in her dying agonies, she still had strength enough to make a grab for Mabel's neck and begin to squeeze.

The copier clones immediately dived in from the side to protect her, but the Queen only swatted them aside, her fungoid muscles easily overpowering the paper doppelgangers. Mabel tried to force her hands away, to grab for another vial of cure – to empty it over the monster's head – but the Queen slammed her against the wall, talon-like vines constricting tighter and tighter around her neck.

"I… won't… go… alone…" the Queen hissed, fungal filaments crudely forcing out human speech. "My fate… is the host's fate…"

Mabel kicked feebly at her, trying desperately to force her hands away, but without much success. With every passing millisecond, her grip grew ever tighter and Mabel found it harder and harder to breathe as the creepers encircled her neck; before long, darkness was creeping in from the corners of her vision, and the Queen was leaning closer to her, her faceless skull opening wide into a pair of crude jaws-

And then Grunkle Ford leapt in from the side with one almighty sucker-punch, catching the Queen a stunning blow to the dome: either Ford still had a little of Fabel's preternatural strength or the Queen was decomposing even further than she looked, because the impact tore the disembodied Forger Wasp right down the middle; one half stayed exactly where it was, still holding Mabel in a rapidly-loosening grip; the other flew across the lab and hit the wall with a stomach-lurching _splat._

A moment later, the arm around Mabel's neck began to melt, dissolving away into shapeless mush.

Then, writhing helplessly where she'd landed, the Queen bubbled, twitched, shuddered… and finally liquefied, all semblance of human form oozing down the wall and into a rapidly-expanding puddle of gunk.

A long silence followed, broken only by the sound of everyone in the basement letting out a sigh of relief in near-perfect unison.

Then, feeling a little bit dizzy and devil-may-care, Mabel let out a bemused, mirthless laugh.

"The Queen is dead," she panted, issuing a mocking salute over the molten corpse. "Long live the Queen."

And with that, Mabel fell forward, Ford just managing to catch her before she hit the ground – no easy task, given that he was still struggling with owning a Mabel-sized body for the immediate future.

Long before she was helped to bed, Mabel had already lapsed into an exhausted slumber – where she remained for the next few hours. Fatigued by stress, restless sleep, drugs and the sudden reclamation of her own identity, she didn't stir from her torpor even when the sprinklers roared to life hours later.

However, much to her delight, she _was_ awake when the copier clones gathered around the unconscious body of the Grey Professional and asked, "What are we going to do with _this_ scumbag?"

* * *

**A/N: The sountrack to this chapter is _ What Lies At The Dream's End _ by Daniel Pemberton.**

**Xziv gl tfvhh dszg szkkvmh mvcg?**


	24. A Royal Comeuppance

A/N: And now, the penultimate chapter - and the revenge many of you have been waiting for!

Read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls is still not mine.

* * *

The work progressed at a breakneck pace.

As it turned out, this particular cure for Forger Wasp infestation had always been intended for easy replication: its creators had known just how virulent their opponent had been, and had formulated the anti-infestation elixir to be as user-friendly as possible. Consequently, not only could it be taken orally or even dermally as well as intravenously (much to Ford's delight) but it could easily be replicated through comparatively primitive methods.

As such, even with the clumsy child-sized hands he was currently lumbered with, it didn't take long for Ford to begin churning out new doses of the cure at an astonishing rate. After about half an hour of work, he finally gave up on filling vials of the stuff and simply began emptying each new batch into the water tank for the fire suppression system. In fact, the process proved so easy that he was even able to instruct the copier clones on how to work the machines, slicing construction time down the middle; the project went so well that they soon had more than enough for the swarm outside – plus at least forty-five minutes left before the Forger Wasps regained consciousness.

So, with the time he had left, he managed to replicate a few precious doses of resistance serum and administer one of them to the still-unconscious Grey Professional, before dragging him into one of the other quarantine cells – where he'd be kept clear of the sprinklers when they finally sprung to life. Ford didn't want to decide what to do with the bastard just yet, but there was a germ of an idea forming… and something told him that he would need to keep the Forger Wasp inside Grey alive for as long as possible.

As the other copier clones slowly returned to the Mystery Shack, they too found shelter in the cells, away from the sprinklers. Truth be told, Ford wasn't sure what was to be done about them either: he was immensely grateful for all the help they'd been over the last few days, but what were they going to do now that their one assigned task was finished? They couldn't stay in the Mystery Shack forever, not now that they'd established their own independent existence, and even if the grateful townsfolk provided them with a house of their own, it wasn't a guarantee of safety: after all, even if their new home gave them a roof over their heads, there was still a danger of leaks. And with rain and snow almost inevitable in some months of the year, spending weeks on end cooped up under a single roof wouldn't exactly offer a happy life for the clones. So what else could be done for them? What could grant security to their fragile lives?

It went down on Ford's growing list of problems to deal with. Fortunately, the copier clones were prompt about arriving, so he didn't have to worry about delaying the sprinklers for their sake: Mabel had briefed them very thoroughly on what they were going to do, and had told them to take shelter in the Mystery Shack as soon as the Mabels began passing out – just so none of the copies would end up getting a fatal drenching from the outdoor fire suppressors.

Tracy and Quattro were the last to arrive at the Shack, hastily ducking into the shelter of the quarantine cells as Ford took up his position at the control panel to the newly-installed surveillance system hub.

Having familiarized himself with the modifications the Forger Wasps had made to the house, he knew that they'd meant to ensure that the fire suppression system doubled as a riot control weapon: the outdoor sprinklers had been augmented with water cannons just in case the gun turrets, missile launchers and other security arrays weren't sufficient to keep out intruders, while the indoor sprinklers had been given special new pressure options that would allow them to active with the force of a fire hose, slamming anyone caught under them hard against the ground. No doubt they'd been hoping to use these additional security measures against the copier clones, to the point that the surveillance hub even allowed users the power to activate the sprinklers in specific areas of the house. All things considered, this might have been the worst mistake the Queen had ever made in her life.

For perhaps a minute or so, Ford paused by the activation switch, wondering if there was anything meaningful he could say or do in these last seconds, something that could make the Forger Wasps feel as much suffering and misery as they'd forced Mabel to endure in these last few days. But in the end, he knew it was futile to waste time on such pointless gestures; he had work to do, and now that Mabel had gone this far to stop Grey and kill the Queen, it was up to him to make sure that her hard work paid off.

So, he selected the fire suppression, selected both the internal and external sprinklers, turned the water pressure up to maximum, and hit 'activate.'

For a split second, nothing happened, and Ford wondered if he'd screwed up with about ten minutes left on the clock. Then, there was a low rumble from the basement water tanks.

Then, all over the Mystery Shack, the cure serum began gushing out of the sprinklers.

* * *

The New Queen was the first to awaken. As per the biological protocols established at the birth of her species, she was always the first to recover from the reconstruction of the hive mind, and the first to awaken from the coma triggered by the death of the Old Queen.

At once, she felt the hive mind around her, a vast web of psychic connections rippling out from her being: she was now the nexus of all those interconnected minds, all of them reporting back to her as one, feeding her information and following her commands. Though none of the swarm were conscious yet, each member still provided her with an automatic stream of data: their locations, their memories, their last orders, and their current status. The effect was dizzying beyond imagination, the sheer scale of sensory detail impossible to describe even in the telepathic language of the Forger Wasps; only a Queen would ever understand the grandeur of what it meant to command the hive mind.

She tried to clamber to her feet – or at the very least to open her eyes – but her host body was clumsy and slow to respond, her true body aching from the metamorphosis she'd undergone in the last two hours. Not long ago, she had been the drone known as Dabel, subservient to the whims of the Queen; now, _she_ was the Queen of the swarm, the commander of the hive and future master of all life.

Of course, for that to happen, she would need to move, and so far her body didn't seem in a very cooperative mood: now that she was Queen, she was not meant to command Dabel's body. She was to sit motionless at the centre of Mabel's being, commanding the swarm through will alone as her trusted subjects tended to the health of her royal host body.

So, her first priority was to address this problem – and to find a compatible host.

She emerged from her coma slowly, awkwardly, but with an immediate sense of purpose: she was to seek out Mabel and force her weak human body to accommodate her, to burrow out a new home for herself in the depths of Mabel's flesh. And if such a thing were not possible – if Mabel resisted beyond the boundaries of reason – then the only logical course of action would be to kill her and recreate her in Dabel's flesh: she would take all the thoughts and memories that the hive mind had absorbed and pump them into her host's long-dormant brain, aggressively remodelling Dipper into his sister right down to her soul – until the old royal host was reborn into a new reign.

Next on her agenda would be to re-infest Ford Pines, a process that wouldn't take long considering that his morphic field likely still hadn't fully reverted; then, once he and Grey were secured, she would take great pleasure in having the copier clones slowly shredded into confetti and flushed down the toilet. And once they were finished with their vengeance, it would be time to make use of Grey's dimension travel device.

All of these things were in reach: she was just a few feet from the secret door and the elevator that lay beyond. Struggling though she was, she could easily open the way for her sisters and be upon the defenders before they knew what was happening; she wasn't sure how long she'd been unconscious, but she was certain that Ford Pines would still be at least half an hour from replicating the cure serum.

And it was then that, just as the New Queen was struggling to her feet, there was a muffled whirr from somewhere overhead. A moment later, the sprinklers roared to life, instantly soaking Dabel to the skin and rousing several of her sisters from their comas. Outside, there was a whoosh as the water cannons began dousing the grounds in a fine spray of water, drenching the members of the swarm who were still outside.

For perhaps ten seconds, the Queen remained perfectly still, her head cocked to the side in confusion: she couldn't smell fire in the building, so why would the sprinklers have turned on – manually or otherwise?

Then the pain struck.

Too late, she realized that the cure could be absorbed through her skin; too late, she realized that the cure had been much easier to replicate than any variants her species had encountered in the past. True, dosages taken via orally or dermally didn't work quite as swiftly as intravenous delivery, but with the sheer quantity of it gushing down on her, that hardly mattered. Instead of being faced by a single, deadly shot to the heart, she was now faced by an unceasing deluge of poison raining down on her and her sisters. And now, with the entire swarm within reach of the fire suppression system, there was no escaping what was going to happen next.

All around her, Forger Wasps writhed in their death throes, limbs flailing wildly as the poison ate away at their true bodies, dissolving the connections between them and their hosts. Even though most were still unconscious despite the pain, they still twitched viciously in their final agonies, shivering wildly in their sleep as the cure did its work. And she could tell from the low chorus of groans and gurgles and screams issuing from across the Shack, it was the same for every single member of the swarm.

One by one, the dying Forger Wasps were expelled from their host bodies, their true forms erupting into the open air and finally succumbing to the sheer magnitude of the poison in their bodies. One by one, the Forger Wasps shuddered their last and died, dissolving and disintegrating until nothing remained of them but puddles of lifeless ooze.

Then it was Dabel's turn.

Thirty agonized seconds went by as she struggled to resist the cure, to force her body to remain intact despite the chemicals that threatened to liquefy it. Howling mad, incoherent word, she struggled to claw her way to the basement and confront Mabel one final time, to get her hands on Grey's dimensional teleporter, to kill her own host, to do _something _that would make her few minutes as Queen worthwhile.

But in the end, her connection to her host dissolved much sooner than she did, and Dipper's body lapsed back into unconsciousness before she could put any final plans into motion. And as he fell, the Forger Wasp inside him lurched into the daylight and collapsed upon the floor with a hideous, watery splat.

In the last few seconds of life, she lay there, sizzling, twitching, and wondering how something as insignificant and foolish as Grey had ruined their work – before finally expiring.

* * *

As soon as he was satisfied that none of the Forger Wasps had escaped the deluge, Ford's first order of business was to awaken as many of the cured people as possible and escort them downstairs to the fabricator for a new suit of clothes. Quite apart from the fact that all of them were soaking wet, they were now in the process of reverting to normal, and within a few hours, they weren't going to fit the Mabel-sized attire they'd been given. So they needed suitably-sized clothes elastic enough to fit them while they went about finding or replacing their old attire, wherever the Forger Wasps had dumped it; thankfully, the fabricator was more than up to the task of outfitting them with jumpsuits to that end.

Thankfully, it didn't take too long to find people who'd actually had some idea of what was going on before being nabbed by the swarm: one by one, Stanley, Fiddleford, Wendy, Candy and Grenda all emerged from their slumbers more or less caught up on current events, enough to manage the confused masses – once Ford had finished welcoming them back to the world of sanity.

But even with their help, it still took an interminable length of time to get everyone awake, informed, on their feet and moving. For one thing, were understandably confused to find themselves lying drenched in the Mystery Shack surrounded by clones of Mabel, and even more so when they finally realized what they'd become.

By now, Ford was looking a lot more like himself, having shot up in height by at least three inches, gained at least a year or so in age and recovered a hint of his old jawline; unfortunately, this meant that he looked _very _odd to the recovering citizens, especially since Fabel's clothes didn't quite fit him anymore, and it was some time before he was able to convince anyone of who he was.

Explaining things to adult victims was frustrating enough, but it was even worse when the recovering victim turned out to be a child: Ford didn't know how to calm them down, and because most of the swarm were still completely identical, there was no way of knowing where their parents were until they'd woken up. And then there were the victims who'd been even _younger_ than that when the Forger Wasps had caught them. Toddlers and infants suddenly found themselves awakening in the bodies of twelve-year-olds, and once again, immediately began screaming for their mothers; the youngest of them didn't even know how to walk, much less follow instructions, and to be helped downstairs. Wendy and Grenda were lifesavers in this department, playing the part of protective big sisters until their parents could be located.

In a few mercifully rare cases, the victims had been in hospital under very delicate circumstances when they'd been infested, and had be given a very thorough medical check-up before they could be moved. Fortunately, conversion into a Mabel appeared to have repaired any sickness or damage they'd suffered in their former bodies, giving a great many patients a new lease on life.

Once the newly-awakened citizens were up-to-date and up-and-about, getting them downstairs required Ford to deploy the long-disused fire escape just to take the strain off the elevator. Eventually, the line leading into the Mystery Shack got so long that Ford gave up and just brought the fabricator out to the front room, and even once the citizens were lined up in front of the machine, it wasn't as simple as churning out jumpsuits for everyone: it was simple enough for the kids, but several adults had body types that had to be carefully tailored for the sake of their own dignity – from Toby Determined's scrawny frame to Manly Dan Corduroy's gigantic physique. Having met Dan when he was younger, Ford knew of the colossal growth spurt the colossal lumberjack had undergone, and didn't want to imagine the consequences of giving him an undersized set of replacement clothes before he got home.

And then there were the nonhuman victims: the gnomes and the lilliputtians were quite taken with their new height, and not at all happy to learn that they were going to shrink back down again in a few hours, resulting in more than a few tantrums upon being provided with doll-sized jumpsuits. And then there were the Manotaurs, who immediately panicked upon learning that they were a) female and b) child-sized; most of them started screaming less than a minute after awakening, and took to sprinting about the Shack in a blind terror, trying vainly to convince themselves that the building had gotten bigger since they'd last visited. It took the best efforts of Wendy to assure them that they'd soon have all their body hair and muscles back, and even then they weren't comfortable until they'd each been given loincloths the size of opera capes.

Even more annoying than the Manotaurs running around with gigantic lengths of clothe draped over them like beach towels were the Northwests – or rather, the ones that had regained consciousness: Preston whined like a rusty gate at having to wear anything but bespoke silk, and demanded to speak to Mabel so he could issue a formal complaint over how she'd solved the infestation; Priscilla appeared to suffer a mild breakdown upon discovering her new body, and spent the next twenty minutes asking when her mother was going to pick her up for the beauty pageant; and the butler just got in the way in his attempts to prepare Priscilla's daily Quaalude smoothie. By contrast, Pacifica remained fast asleep – almost as if unwilling to awaken.

After perhaps an hour of this, the atmosphere calmed: the rapidly-shrinking gnomes went back to their forests, the lilliputtians (by that point dwindling even quicker) flocked back to the golf course, and the Manotaurs lumbered off to their mountain, secure in the knowledge that most of them were already six feet tall. Given that the Wasps had discarded their clothes where they'd found them, they didn't have too far to look for their old gear. The Northwests, unwilling to be seen returning to their true forms in cheap jumpsuits, were easily shooed away with the promise that Pacifica would be returned to Northwest Manor once she'd been given a clean bill of health. Best of all, Manly Dan and his sons went about gathering up the discarded clothes that the swarm had left scattered over Gravity Falls and taking them back to the Shack, where they could be returned to their owners in an orderly fashion. Gradually, the air of fear shrouding the Shack faded as people began to return to normal and lost loved ones were finally able to recognize each other: it was admittedly a rather bizarre sight to witness an entire yard full of identical Mabel clones slowly growing up into adult men and women – or shrinking back down into babies, if that was the case. Even Ford himself was almost fully restored, Stanley was hurtling into his forties, and the rest of his support team were well on their way to being back to normal.

Before long, the last stragglers had left the house, and all that remained were Stanley, Soos and their team of helpers, and the only two patients left at the Shack were Dipper and Pacifica. Medically speaking, there was nothing wrong with either of them apart from fatigue: having briefly served as a royal host, Dipper had been run ragged by the strain of carrying around Dabel as she transformed into the New Queen. As for Pacifica, she'd been under a lot of stress in the hours before the Wasps had sunk their talons into her; either she was subconsciously hanging on to as much sleep as she could possibly get, or she was in full retreat from reality. Either way, both kids ended up back downstairs with Mabel.

After they'd settled them into beds, all they could do was sit back, wait for their exhausted charges to awaken, and wonder what were they to do with the friends and foes that remained…

* * *

Finally, Mabel awoke. It was a long and ponderous kind of awakening, the kind that Mabel only displayed when she was seriously under the weather – according to Stan: she'd open her eyes, notice the small crowd of people sitting around her bed, smile dozily and mumble a few hellos before promptly drifting back to sleep. After about four or five of these failed starts, she finally opened her eyes and kept them open, finally taking in the sight of the strange-looking gaggle of friends peering down at her. Though all of them were almost back to normal by now, they still looked a bit unusual: Ford was sporting a few stubborn traces of chestnut in his hair; Fiddleford's beard hadn't quite turned grey yet; Stan looked young enough to be Mabel's father; Soos was still a bit on the shorter and slimmer side than usual; Wendy was looking more like Mabel's big sister than anything; Grenda was surprisingly dainty at present and Candy was currently without her glasses… and finally, the ensemble was rounded out by all twenty-seven copier clones including Tracy and Quattro.

"Am I dreaming?" Mabel wondered aloud.

"No, kiddo," said Stan. "This is all real."

In that moment, Mabel achieved liftoff: one minute she was lying in bed, blinking sleepily up at them; the next she was hurtling through the air with a shriek of joy and wrapping her arms around Stan's neck. For next four or five minutes, she did little else but hug people, sprinting from person to person at just a little under the speed of light and dragging them into bone-splintering hugs, kissing them several times as well for good measure; she probably would have kissed the copier clones as well, but all twenty-seven of them politely declined on the grounds of avoiding moisture. Nobody was able to translate a single word that left her mouth in that time, partly because she was speaking almost quickly as she moved but mostly because she was shrieking at a pitch that dogs would have struggled to make sense of.

If there'd been any doubt that Mabel had finally shaken off the pall of depression that had been hanging over her since the rise of the Forger Wasps, it was gone: the old, excitable, exuberant Mabel was back with a vengeance.

Eventually, though, even she had to stop to take a breath, leaving her to collapse into a chair with a smile that couldn't have been removed without dynamite. "Where's Dipper?" she asked, as Ford began checking her pulse.

"Still asleep," said Wendy, nodding over at the two hospital beds on the other side of the basement. "He's been through a lot, so he needed extra time to get back to normal. Same with Pacifica."

"Pacifica's here as well?"

"Right next to him."

A wicked grin crossed Mabel's face, and before Ford could stop her, she immediately made a beeline for the opposite end of the lab. "They're not ready to be woken up yet," he called after her.

"I'm not gonna wake them up!" she called back. "I'm just gonna make sure they wake up in a good mood."

And before anyone could ask what she meant by that, Mabel had begun laboriously pushing the two beds together, and despite being fresh from an exhaustion-induced collapse, she was showing no signs of fatigue. Once she'd taken the railings down, Dipper and Pacifica were all but occupying the same bed.

"The matchmaker strikes again," she cackled triumphantly.

Stan opened his mouth to ask what had brought this on, but then the familiar glazed expression crept over his face as recollections began streaming into his brain: so far, it seemed as if everyone carried at least a few memories from their time connected to the hive mind, some of them more useful than others. As for what the Forger Wasps themselves had directly experienced, those memories were still relatively indistinct and often mired in the haze of pleasant stimuli that the Wasps had pumped into their hosts brains to keep them docile: Ford had memories of working on this very enclosure and presiding over Mabel's inoculations, but other than that there wasn't any light dawning on what Fabel had done.

"Oh, right," said Stan at last. Then, he added, "Does anyone actually think Dipper's going to wake up with any idea what's been going on?"

"Probably not," Ford remarked. "In all likelihood, he wasn't even awake for his transformation; these last few days will be just a dream, something between a pleasant fantasy and a nightmare. All things considered, he's lucky… but we'll still have to tell him what happened sooner or later, and he'll have to deal with the fact that he ended up getting possessed again. It probably won't be very pleasant, especially if he retains enough of Dabel's memories."

"It's not as if we've got the option of pretending it really was a dream, is it? Not with the repair bill we've got to work with: Dipper's smart – he'd figure it out sooner or later."

"And definitely not with everyone in Gravity Falls having been infested. Even if we could go the Weirdmageddon route and convince everyone in town to never mention it again, he'd probably end up hearing it from the Gnomes or the Manotaurs instead. So someone's got to break the news to him."

There was a distinctly sombre pause.

Then, in near-perfect unison, Stan and Ford blurted out "I'll tell him," before realizing that they'd just blocked each other.

"I should tell him," insisted Ford. "I know the most about the Forger Wasps, so I should be the one to explain things."

"Come on, Ford, the kid needs a light touch after everything that's happened to him; it should be me."

"No offense, Stanley, but the words 'light touch' don't exactly spring to mind when I think of your approach."

"And yours _does?"_

"Okay, fair enough, but if we're going to give him the news-"

"It's going to be me," said Mabel flatly.

Another pause followed, this one quite distinctly shocked.

"Mabel, you don't have to put yourself through this – you've been through more than enough already without having to make your day even more miserable-"

"It's going to be me," Mabel repeated. She was still smiling, a little sadly, but even that couldn't quite dim the smile on her face. "He'll have to know everything, and I was there for all of it, so it has to be. Besides, I've been tidying up my mess all day; I can't chicken out now."

Ford and Stan looked from Mabel to Dipper's still-slumbering form and – once again almost in perfect unison – realized that there was absolutely nothing they could say to dissuade her, not after everything she'd done to stop the Forger Wasps.

And in the silence that followed, the copier clones eyed the supine body of the Grey Professional and asked, "What are we going to do with this scumbag?"

"I had some ideas," said Ford, "But they don't quite solve the problem on what to do with his supporters: we've got to do something that'll stop 8-Ball from ever sending another hitman after us, and we've got to make sure Grey here won't come back for revenge."

"So we can't lock him up permanently?"

"Not with the facilities we've got: even without his equipment, he's too dangerous to be allowed to mix with ordinary human beings."

"And we can't just tie him up in a car and roll it downhill into a lake?" Suddenly realizing that everyone was staring at him, Stan hastily added, "I'm just making suggestions, okay?"

"We're not killing anybody," said Mabel firmly. "I mean, anybody _else. _We're just going to make absolutely sure he never hurts anyone ever again."

"What about his gear?" Wendy suggested. "Maybe there's something we can use in there."

For the next few minutes, they picked through the small arsenal of weapons and futuristic machinery that Grey had brought with him, and though all looked immensely interesting, none of them offered any concrete ideas until Ford uncovered a small handheld screen no bigger than a landline phone. It took a little effort to activate and unlock it, but eventually Ford found himself staring into one of the strangest things he'd seen since his return from the multiverse.

"What the hell is Facebook?" he asked.

Wendy shook with laughter. "Oh man, we have _got_ to get Tambry in on this…"

* * *

"Oh Grey? Wakey-wakey, Grey. This is your nine o'clock alarm. Wakey-wakey eggs 'n bakey."

The Grey Professional groaned; he was dimly aware that a bright light was being shone in his eyes, and on instinct, he tried to turn away from it… only to realize that he wasn't asleep on a couch in the Retribution Squad's HQ, as he'd initially believed.

He was tied to a chair.

And on all sides, he was surrounded: Mabel Pines, the paper doppelgangers, Stanford Pines, Stanley Pines, Wendy Corduroy, Soos Ramirez, Fiddleford McGucket, Grenda Grendinator, and Candy Chiu. And as if the fact that they had all been restored to normal wasn't shocking enough, all of them were smirking with undisguised glee.

An ice-cold drop of fear landed in the pit of Grey's stomach and began spreading along his spine. Even with his arms tied behind his back, he could already tell that he'd been stripped of all his equipment: his Mistifier, his comms unit, his dimensional teleporter, his weapons – all of them were gone and were likely well out of reach by now. For the first time in over a century, he was completely helpless. For the first time in his entire life, _he'd failed._

"Morning!" said Mabel, grinning maniacally. "We were thinking of letting you sleep for a little while longer, but we've got stuff to talk about before we get rid of you. Grunkle Ford, you can give him the bad news."

"The Forger Wasps are all but gone," Ford explained, as Mabel slipped into the background. "The Queen and her first replacement are dead; the swarm's been wiped out, and now that we've worked out how to operate your teleporter, they won't be receiving any reinforcements. Long story short, your 'friends' are gone and you've lost."

"And now it's your turn," Stanley Pines chuckled.

Grey barely managed to suppress a shudder of fear. "Whatever you do to me," he snarled, "Whatever tortures you inflict before you finally work up the courage to kill me, the Retribution Squad will avenge a thousandfold. You'll suffer even worse than I will, I promise you that."

There was a ripple of laughter from the crowd.

"Kill you?" Stan echoed.

"Aw, dude, no way," said Soos. "We aren't gonna kill you; we're not even gonna hurt you."

Ford smirked. "Not _physically_," he added. "But yes, I think it's in everyone's best interest that you live a long and healthy life with your new reputation and your new state of being."

"…what do you mean, '_new_ reputation'?"

By way of an explanation, Ford held up Grey's personal datapad. "Thanks very much for keeping this DNA-locked by the way; it saved us the trouble of having to crack passwords. I mean, a datapad with access to the multiversal media networks? This might just be the single most valuable piece of technology on this planet, to say nothing of the access to all the newest developments in the field… seriously, it's the one thing you gave us that might be more useful than your teleporter."

"Get to the point."

"The point is that you've been recording just about everything that's happened here in Gravity Falls and sending it to 8-Ball… but your cameras still have the original files in the system. Now, I'm still a bit behind on this internet business, but I'm very lucky to have friends and family that were more than happy to show me how to work with social media."

"And now," added Wendy, "We've got the perfect place to put all that footage of you getting your butt kicked by a twelve-year-old."

"WHAT?"

"Oh, and the footage of you looking like an idiot in front of a bunch of humans," Mabel chimed in. She held up one of Grey's automated camera drones and grinned broadly. "Smile! You're on Candid Camera!"

As one, Grey's airborne cameras dipped into view and surrounded him, recording him from every angle; while a giggling Candy Chiu worked the drone remote, Soos and Wendy connected the remote link up to his datapad and began gleefully pressing buttons.

"I swear, Mabel, this will not be the end," Grey snarled. "Whatever you spread to the interdimensional internet will be your undoing: the Retribution Squad will know your face and they will know exactly what crimes to avenge. They shall make you suffer for this humiliation! They-"

But at that very moment, Grey felt his body turn traitor, setting his nerves alight with pain as his morphic field suddenly began to warp out of shape: his flesh melted like tallow, oozing into new configurations; his skeleton cracked and contracted and shrank inwards; his hair turned from grey to brown even as it began cascading down the back of his once-immaculately-trimmed skull. He began to shrink in his seat, his body shrivelling and withering away inside his suddenly oversized clothes, his view plunging steadily downwards – and as he dwindled, his mind began to change as well: for one horrible instant, Grey's memories fizzled out of existence, instantly replaced by a flood of recollections that could have only belonged to Mabel – the search for the Gobblewonker, dating Gideon, making friends with Pacifica, escaping Mabeland – before his own memories reasserted themselves and left him as the Grey Professional once again. Then his morphic field gave another violent lurch and he began to grow again, hurtling back to his normal height at a stomach-churning pace only to shrink back down again just as quickly; a moment later, it happened again – and again, and again…

"What have you done to me?!" Grey shrilled, his voice shifting wildly between his usual low register and Mabel's prepubescent gibbering.

"Remember how I infested you?" said Mabel. "Well, you've still got a Forger Wasp in you; now that all the others are dead, she's the Queen – the Last Queen. She's supposed to jump right back to me and start infesting people again, but Grunkle Ford's made sure she can't get out of you."

"You did _what?!"_

"Just a little alteration to the Wasp's physiology," Ford remarked. "Once we were able to dilute the cure serum to safe levels, we injected it into specific points into the Queen's body during her maturation process: all of a sudden, your passenger's too weak to leave. And while we're on the subject, thanks for packing that nanosurgery kit into your gear: I never would have got this little experiment to work without that."

"Anyway," continued Mabel. "Since she can't get out, she'll do the next best thing and try to turn you into me. Bad news is that the Queen can't do that either, not all the way."

"Another effect of the poisoning. Every now and again, she'll try to force your shape to conform to her desires and probably fill your head full of Mabel's memories, but she's too weak to maintain it. What you're experiencing is the Queen playing tug-of-war with your morphic field." Ford grinned wickedly. "Don't worry, it won't last for much longer than a few minutes before Her Highness runs out of steam… but she'll try again once she's recovered her strength. Oh, and by the way, there's no way of telling when she'll make her next attempt. Sorry. But on the upside, at least you won't be able to infest anyone: I sterilized her just to be safe."

"GET THIS THING OUT OF ME!" Grey wailed, his body concertinaing back and forth between one shape and another, his physiology shifting unevenly from form to form. "MAKE IT STOP! CURE ME!"

Ford grinned like the proverbial Cheshire Cat. "No," he said flatly. "I'd like to see what happens if she manages to work up enough strength to maintain your new form for a little while. I doubt you'll ever fully transformed into Mabel all the way, but you'll probably end up giving me more than enough to laugh about in the process."

"For crying out loud, you've made your point! STOP THIS! _DON'T LET ME SUFFER! _END IT ALL!"

"Nope," said Mabel, smirking triumphantly. "Not while we've still got work to do. Guys, do you think we've got enough footage yet?"

"Just need a little more. We're getting some really good shots of him crying here, but I think it might be funnier if we added a dubstep soundtrack to it."

"Dude, no way; I'm going for Straight Blanchin' all the way with this one."

"STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIAAAAARGGHHH!"

With one almighty scream, Grey lurched back into his true form and crashed to the ground, his body still convulsing from the pain of transformation. For the next few seconds, he could only lie there in a twitching, shivering heap of crudely-bound limbs as Candy went on recording footage.

"And I think that's enough," Mabel concluded. "The Grey Professional, everybody!"

"Uploading now, dudes…"

For the next few minutes, there was silence as Grey tried and failed to free himself from the knots that bound him – or at the very least to force himself upright again.

"If you don't even have the guts to actually kill me," he wheezed at last, "then I'll make sure this feud lasts forever; no matter what pain and humiliation you inflict on me, I'll return the favour someday. I'm still a member of the Retribution Squad, and I've got the resources to make your lives a living, breathing _hell:_ I'll find things that'll make the Forger Wasps look like a plague of bedbugs, I'll tear this planet asunder and I'll ensure you spend every minute of your miserable collective existence in agony!"

As one, the onlookers smirked. "I don't think you will, Grey," said Stan. "Because we're uploading the highlights of everything you've been up to, and people are really startin' to take notice…"

"And you think I care what a few social media sites say about me?!"

"Not really," Ford admitted. "But I'm pretty sure that your employers _will."_

There was a wince from the background. "Ooh, they didn't like that," Mabel laughed. "Whaddaya know? It's actually _illegal_ to make deals with Forger Wasps!"

"I'M A SENIOR MEMBER OF THE SQUAD! I HAVE CARTE BLANCHE TO DO WHAT NEEDS TO BE DONE TO COMPLETE A MISSION!"

"Somehow I don't think they're gonna see it that way, pal. Oh, and now the comments are getting really interesting: you're not supposed to actually talk to the clients during a job!"

"Jeez, look at this one: 'using Forger Wasps or any resource that might spread to the rest of the multiverse constitutes a direct violation of the Code of Retribution and an indirect threat to the continued existence of the Retribution Squad. Flaunting this rule will be punished by a period of suspension no less than twenty years or a fine of no more than two hundred thousand'-"

The rest of Ford's sentence was lost in the wordless howl of rage that erupted from between Grey's clenched teeth.

Stan laughed. "My lord, and I thought the Shriners got tetchy about their rules: 'failure to correctly monitor a potential threat to the mission is considered a sign of blatant incompetence and…' Oh gosh, look at this, Ford!"

Everyone immediately crowded around the screen to get a better look at the comments section.

"What?" Grey demanded. "_What is it?"_

Mabel grinned. "Glad you asked, Grey: you're fired."

"…what."

"It's an official notice from the Retribution Squad," said Ford, smugly. "And it's being posted to just about every single social media network where the Squad has a presence: 'Montresor of Florence (also known as Agent Amontillado, also known as the Grey Professional) is no longer affiliated with the Eternally Clean-Handed Zathropodal Brethren Of Mercenary Vengeance, nor does he represent our order in any way, shape or form. As punishment for criminal incompetence, violations of safety regulations and the public embarrassment of our organization, he is now stripped of membership: his association contract has been officially terminated, all debts owed to him are cancelled, all properties granted to him by the squad are hereby confiscated and a council will be convened to decide on whether he should become the target of appropriate retribution for this egregious breach of our code of conduct."

There was a muffled whirring from the small pile of equipment lying in the corner. Soos went to investigate, but Grey already knew what it was: he'd heard that sound far too many times to fail to recognize what it might be, but up until now, the recipient had always been someone else – a failure, an unreliable agent, or even a traitor. More than once, he'd been entrusted with the duty of hunting down and punishing those unworthy agents when they'd tried to flee the judgement of the Retribution Squad… but now he was one of them. His electronic ID badge had just been updated with an official cancellation notice and would no longer allow him entry into the halls of Retribution Squad HQ.

From here on, regardless of whether or not his superiors called in a hit on him, he was officially an exile.

He'd failed.

He'd lost everything – and as his heart sank, he knew he'd lost what little remained of his will to fight as well. There would be nobody avenging his death now: there was nothing he could do to threaten his captors with, nothing he could do to escape whatever horrors they had in store for him.

How could this have happened?

"What are you going to do now?" he whispered. "What do you want from me?"

Mabel gave him a smile that looked as though it should have been equipped with fangs and a dorsal fin.

"I want you to leave and never come back," she said icily. "We know how to work this teleporting doohickie of yours by now, so we can send you anywhere in the multiverse; as soon we untie you, you're going to walk through the portal we make for you. You're going to leave empty-handed, and you're not going to say or do _anything _until you're out of this universe for good. Try anything cute and we'll duct tape you to the water tower until the Retribution Squad come to pick you up. Got it?"

"Absolutely," said Grey quickly. "Uh, what do I do next?"

"Easy: you're going to stay wherever we send you, and you're going to spend the rest of your life there with the Last Queen stuck inside you, making you transform and making you just as miserable as you made me. You won't hurt anyone, you won't threaten anyone, and you definitely won't be working as a hitman anymore because nobody's going to take you seriously once they've seen you transforming into me – or if you end up stuck between forms. And I know you like to take yourself seriously, so you're probably not even going to show your face in public in case you change, and if you do, you're going to be laughed at on street corners until the day you die. And that, _Grey_, is going to be your life from now on: hiding in shadows or being the butt of everyone's jokes."

"You'd do that to me? You'd do something so horrible as-"

"No, Grey," Mabel hissed. The smile was gone from her face now. "This isn't me being horrible: you don't know what me being horrible is like; Bill knew all about it, and so did the Forger Wasps, but you don't know what I'm like when I'm at my worst. I can be meaner and stupider and more selfish than you can even dream of, and I'm still making up for all the people I hurt the last time I was like that. This is me being _nice,_ Grey. I've given you a new life, I'm making sure your old pals from the Squad don't find you, and we're making sure you can't hurt anyone else. This is me being _shockingly nice,_ Grey, especially after what you tried to do to my friends and family."

She paused, clearly waiting for the unspoken threat to sink in.

"So now it's time: do you want to leave, or do you want to stick around and see just how nice the Retribution Squad can get when they find you?"

The Grey Professional – a man who, over a century past, had bricked up his best friend in a cellar over a long-forgotten slight – now sighed, bowed his head in shame, and made his choice.

* * *

A/N: Up next - THE EPILOGUE. Feel free to furnish me with your guesses as to what our final chapter might hold.

Meanwhile, time for one last code:

"DSZG WL BLF NVZM NB XIVWRG XZIW DZH WVXORMVW?!"


	25. Home And Exile

A/N: And now at last we've reached the end.

I am tired, I am sleep-deprived, and I am not sure what the hell I'm going to do from here apart from enjoy a long period of unconsciousness, but I have had an absolute whale of a time with this story. Writing has recently gotten me through some very dark times, from the current political/biological nightmare we all seem to be living with, to recent familial tragedies. I hope you've enjoyed the ride as much as I have: rest assured, I will be eventually be returning from Gravity Falls... but first, I may have to take a hiatus to focus on my _other _neglected stories.

Anyway, without further ado, the final chapter: read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls is not mine, and neither is The Secret World.

* * *

The Grey Professional left the world in a sorry state: once Ford had worked out how to open a portal with the dimensional teleporter, Grey couldn't even bring himself to walk through it with his head held high and his pride intact; he could only shuffle away like a man in leaden manacles, head bowed, half fuming with rage and half cringing in embarrassment as he vanished into the portal.

Soon after, Ford brainstormed a few ideas with the copier clones, and eventually came to an arrangement: there were dimensions out there that were naturally hospitable to paper-based life-forms, worlds where the clones could live long and happy lives without having to constantly worry about rain, snow, hail, dew and other forms of moisture; those of them who wanted to depart for this other dimension – once Ford had successfully identified – could leave as soon as they wished. But, if they wanted to remain behind and eke out a more dangerous life in Gravity Falls, Mabel and Ford wouldn't stop them; they'd be free to live in the basement, to live in a house of their own, or just to camp out in the forests with waterproof tents and rain ponchos. In total, half of the clones departed, and half opted to stay in Gravity Falls – Tracy going with one group and Quattro remaining behind with the others.

Before long, the sound of portals opening was replaced by the sounds of a small work crew in action, the soothing cacophony of hammering and sawing as the Mystery Shack gradually threw off the alterations that the Forger Wasps had made to it. Slowly but surely, the fortress was being returned to its former tourist-trap glory.

And then, just as Mabel thought the day couldn't possibly get any better, there was a tiny blip from the security monitor overseeing their two remaining patients…

* * *

Dipper's return to the waking world was slow and laboured, interrupted by nonsensical snippets of dreams that faded the moment he tried to focus on them. Time and again, he found himself being drawn back to visions of Mabel holding the rift or swatting a hornet or something similar, images that slipped through his fingers every time he began creeping back towards wakefulness, and he was left only with a fleeting glimpse or two of whatever was going on in the real world – a pillow, a sheet, a high ceiling, and maybe the notion that someone was hugging him . He was aware on some level that he wanted to wake up, but he was also aware that he was exhausted, his body weighed down with fatigue, so more often than not he just allowed tiredness to drag him back down into the pillows: on the occasions where he was conscious enough to realize it, he felt drained, battered, weary and footsore, almost as if he was recovering from being possessed by Bill again – though at least he didn't have any new collections of cuts and bruises to keep him from getting comfortable.

Eventually, he regained enough of his strength to gradually claw his way back into a state of full consciousness, slowly forced one eyelid open, and took stock of the situation: as expected he was lying in a bed, but for some reason he was now in the basement lab, wireless sensors connecting his body to all kinds of monitors and machines.

Also, someone had indeed been hugging him, their arms wrapped very firmly around his middle even as he slept.

To his surprise, that someone was none other than Pacifica Northwest.

At some point since the two of them had ended up down here, someone had joined their two beds together, allowing the sleeping Northwest to roll over to his end of the mattress and – without even waking up – instinctively hug him.

For a full minute, Dipper could only lie there, staring in bewilderment. Eventually, remaining perfectly still got too much for him, and he instinctively fidgeted – only slightly, but that was enough to rouse Pacifica from her sleep. Blinking sleepily, she yawned, mumbled a bit, and then opened her eyes to focus on the figure lying next to her.

Her eyes widened in astonishment, and a distinctly un-Northwest-like grin erupted across her face. Dipper had just enough time to mutter, "Uh, hi," before she drew him into a yet another hug, kissing him frantically on the cheek. Dipper didn't know what to do, but instinct, he hugged her back – and this seemed to trigger Pacifica's vocal chords, because the next second, she was talking at a pace that could have been rivalled only by Mabel in the depths of a sugar high.

"OhmygodImissedyouIthoughtI'dneverseeyouagainohjeezIthoughtmymakeupwouldbesomuchbetterbecauseweweregoingonaproperdateandeverythingbutthenIfiguredoutthattheForgerWaspstrickedmeandIthoughtI'dneverseeyoueveragainandohgoshI'msogladyou'reokaysoMabelandFordmusthavefoundacureafteralland-"

For almost a full minute, she ranted without making a single coherent statement or taking a single breath, until at last she ran out of energy and fell silent, still hugging Dipper as if afraid he'd vanish if she didn't maintain her grip on him. Then, from the doorway, there was a whoop of joy; a moment later, Mabel rocketed into view, hurtling through the air as she catapulted herself across the lab with one almighty shout of "DIPPEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEER!"

Suddenly, there were _three_ people occupying the bed, and Mabel was hugging Dipper and Pacifica so tightly that she almost ended up banging their heads together by mistake.

"Whoa," Dipper wheezed, as Mabel's hug began slowly constricting his throat, "I'm happy to see you too, Mabel… but what am I doing down here? And what's Pacifica doing down here?"

"You managed to find a cure for the Forger Wasps, didn't you?" said Pacifica excitedly. "That's why we're back to normal, isn't it? You actually saved everyone?"

"Hang on! What do you mean, 'back to normal?' What happened to us? And what the heck are Forger Wasps?"

Mabel took a deep breath, and as her expression shifted, Dipper suddenly realized that his sister was deeply nervous – maybe even genuinely frightened. Nonetheless, she sat down and began to explain the situation that unfolded over the last few days: the Retribution Squad, Grey, the Forger Wasps, Mabel's infestation by the Queen, and even how she'd accidentally infested Dipper in turn. She gave him every last nugget of information on the plague that had ensued, with Pacifica reluctantly chiming in to explain the parts of the story that Mabel herself hadn't actually witnessed. Finally, Mabel explained how Grey and the Wasps had been defeated, concluding with the reassurance that everything was slowly going back to normal.

"So in other words, I got possessed again," Dipper summarized – not that he needed to ask for clarification: he _knew _he'd been used as a fingerpuppet by yet another psychopath from another word; already he was feeling the familiar sensation of crawling nausea that crept into his stomach whenever the issue of possession came up. And then there'd been the exhaustion he'd felt when he'd first awoken, identical to the pain and weariness Bill had inflicted upon him as Bipper. He didn't need Grunkle Ford to confirm this story, not with his own body providing evidence enough.

Mabel nodded, suddenly very solemn. "Are you okay?" she asked gently.

"I've felt better. Is everyone okay?"

"Absolutely. Nobody's been hurt in the long run, and everyone's getting back to the way they were."

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"You put yourself through heck trying to save the world… and I've got a few memories left over from the Wasps – I mean, I _think _they're memories; Forger Wasps don't sound like they dream or anything like that. Point is, I keep seeing what they did to manipulate you… and I just want to know you're okay."

He also wanted to know if the vision he'd seen of her unknowing deal with Bill had been real; he wanted to know if all those scenes from the hive-mind's memories had been real, if the Wasps really had manipulated and tormented Mabel that way. He wanted to tell her that none of it was her fault, that he could clearly see that she'd been lied to, that they'd exploited her misery and made her think along their lines. Most of all, he wanted to tell her that he'd already forgiven her.

But in the end, he said nothing: he didn't want to tear open old wounds.

And besides, something told him that Mabel already knew, because she immediately drew him into another crushing hug.

"It's good to have you back, bro-bro."

There was a pause, as the atmosphere relaxed and the tension bled away. Then, an odd question struck Dipper, and he voiced it almost without thinking: "So we were actually going out on a date?" he asked, eyeing Pacifica with some confusion. "Before it turned out to be a trick, I mean?"

Pacifica could only blush, suddenly unable to make eye contact.

At this point, Dipper wasn't entirely sure what was doing, but he was feeling a bit devil-may-care and giddy after his long sleep… and strange as it was to wake up to being hugged by Pacifica – a girl who'd gone from hateful to almost trustworthy within the space of a few short weeks – he had to admit, he had felt genuinely happy in that moment. There'd been none of the awkwardness he'd felt around Wendy, no sense that he was struggling against astronomical odds to get her to notice him, or that she was out of his league in all the ways that mattered: in that moment, there'd been nothing but him and Pacifica.

And so, he found himself asking, "Do you think we could go on a real date together?"

Pacifica's eyes widened.

Then she kissed him square on the lips, and for the next minute, the only sound in the lab was Mabel punching the air in triumph.

* * *

"What do you mean, my credit card's been cancelled?!" 8-Ball howled.

The communications module droned disappointedly, explaining absolutely nothing in the process.

"I thought I'd made this perfectly clear: I'm the sole inheritor of Bill Cipher's assets as per the arrangements he made with this establishment prior to his death. I've been given total executive control of all his properties, holdings and remaining bank accounts across the multiverse – and _I was told nobody would contest this!_ The card I am attempting to enter was specifically left in order to ensure that Bill Cipher's interests would be carried out following his death! Now, unless you can give me a good reason for any of this happening, then in the interests of maintaining my spleen I suggest you REACTIVATE MY DAMN CREDIT CARD! I HAVE MERCENARIES TO HIRE!"

On the module's screen, a very tired-sounding clerk in a far-off dimension began spitting out a long string of legal jargon that amounted to "no." So far, there didn't seem to be any concrete reasons on the horizon apart from "because we said so."

8-Ball groaned, furiously grinding his foot into the swirling fundament of Weirdness on which he stood and trying to ignore the cold winds now sweeping along the endless liquid hills of madness. The Nightmare Realm was worse than usual: since Bill's death, the dimension had been significantly less vibrant than usual, its lurid colours forever dampened, its frenzied music muted by the loss of its master… but somehow, now that 8-Ball's biggest plan for revenge had failed, it seemed even duller and colder than ever.

The current spate of financial difficulties didn't help.

"Listen," he snarled, "As Bill's legally-appointed heir, I deserve answers: why can't I use this card anymore? The only reason why I would ever have my ownership revoked is for failing to serve his interests, and I've been doing everything he'd want me to do!"

The clerk sighed. "That may well be part of the problem, sir: in the last few hours, certain facts have come to light concerning your use of Mr Cipher's funds. We normally make no judgements as to the use of money or the use of power. The dimension Mr Cipher intended to invade was not a client world, nor was it in any way a potential asset, so we had no objection to his attempted takeover. However, the use of Forger Wasps in this attempt at revenge… well, OmniFinancial deplores the use of biohazards which might spread across the multiverse and therefore damage company profits."

"_I _wasn't the one who decided to use the damn Wasps!"

"Nonetheless, as the Grey Professional's client, you gave no objection to it: the board of directors feel that you bear at least some blame for this potential threat." An apologetic smile glanced off the clerk's pallid features. "Furthermore, the negative publicity from this social media leak reflects badly on us, and we have already received some criticism for doing business with you."

"And that's why you decided to shut me down? Just because you've gotten a bloody nose from some Twitter page-"

"Uh, no sir: technically, we don't have the authority to cancel your credit card under such circumstances – only fine and penalize accordingly. But… well, the original card holder exercised his right to withdraw your ownership."

There was a pause of about ten seconds, during which 8-Ball's consciousness tried valiantly to parse the sentence he'd just heard, without much success: it simply didn't compute on any level; even by the surrealistic standards of the Nightmare Realm, it didn't make sense. In the end, he could only howl, "_The original card holder?!"_

"That's right, sir."

"The original card holder is _dead!"_

Without saying a word, the clerk pressed a button on the keyboard in front of him, switching over to a different camera somewhere else across the multiverse. For a moment or so, the viewscreen was blank with static as the module struggled to establish a connection, but eventually the confusion resolved into…

Not for the first time that day, 8-Ball could only blink in confusion, his eyes audibly _clacking_ bewilderedly as he took in the improbable sight before him. For some reason, he'd been switched over to a 21st-century webcam in an ordinary home… and sitting before him was what appeared to be a human child.

This kid was about the least-impressive sight that 8-Ball had seen in his long years: roughly six years of age, he was so short and scrawny he could barely see over the edge of his desk; it wasn't until a pair of gangly arms reached into the shot and helpfully added an old phone book to the kid's chair that 8-Ball could get a clear look at him. And yet there was something uncannily familiar about his muddy brown hair, something about the battered old clothes he wore that seemed to trigger a rush of déjà vu.

Then he saw the child's eyes: for some reason, 8-Ball had expected them to be dull brown to match the kid's hair, but instead, this little boy's eyes were a vivid, almost luminous shade of blue.

"Hello, 8-Ball," said the child. "It's good to see you again."

Once again, the Henchmaniac could only stare in confusion. "_Boss?"_ he whispered.

Little Bill Cipher nodded, seemingly embarrassed by the recognition. "I'm called Marcus these days," he admitted sheepishly. "But yes, it's me."

"But how – I thought you were – everyone said you would have to be –"

"Yes, I died. But I made a deal with the Axolotl at the last minute: 'my time has come to burn, I invoke the ancient power that I may return.' As it turns out, the deal was a little more complicated than I thought it would be: Axolotl allowed me to return from the dead… but not in my old body, and not even in the same universe – or even the same _multiverse_. So, I was reborn in a mortal body and told to make the most of my second chance." He sighed. "And here I am."

8-Ball's heart leapt with excitement: now he knew that revenge was no longer necessary; now that his master had returned, their old goal of world domination was back on the menu and ready to be savoured. For so long, he thought he'd never be able to achieve anything

"But which dimension are you in right now?" he gibbered wildly. "Can you get us out? When are we starting Weirdmageddon again? When-"

"We're not starting Weirdmageddon again, 8-Ball," said Bill sadly.

There was another disbelieving silence as the Henchmaniac digested this information.

"What?"

"It's off the table, permanently. I've been in this new body for about six years and the longer I stay, the more pointless the idea of starting again sounds. This dimension's already experienced Weirdmageddon; it's already beaten another version of me: what'd be the point of trying all over again when the world already knows how to defeat you? What's the point when the rift's already gone and all the old starting points have been destroyed? And…"

Bill bit his lip nervously. "I've got friends here," he said at last. "I've got a family: they know who I used to be, and they still care about me. They met the other Bill Cipher, and they've got every reason in the world to hate me… but they don't. They actually care about me, 8-Ball. I don't know why, but they do. And it's happening all over the multiverse: billions of Bill Ciphers being reborn and forgiven and allowed to go on living and _actually being happy._ Do you know what that's like? Do you actually know what it's like to feel genuinely and sincerely happy without having to make someone suffer? I thought I'd never feel that way again after I saw my home dimension burn… but somehow, I have."

He sighed deeply. "And that's why there'll be no more Weirdmageddon. And that's why I had your card cancelled as soon as Axolotl told me what you were up to: the world I left has had more than enough trouble without you making it worse. I'm sorry; I know how much revenge meant to you – how much it meant to me… but I can't let you have it."

This time, when the stunned pause finally came to an end, the emotion that sprung to mind wasn't shock, but rage.

"Can't _let_ me have it?" 8-Ball snarled. "What the hell happened to you, boss? What family turned you into a weak, spineless little brat, huh? Goddammit, Axolotl's done something worse than give you a new life: he's taken the fight out of you. I mean, you'd be strangling kittens right now if you had even a bit of your old self left. Since when did things family stop you? Since when did poor odds stop you? I don't care if you don't want it to happen: now that you're back, _Weirdmageddon is back on! _Is that clear?_"_

Bill cringed but said nothing. If anything, he looked almost too ashamed to answer.

"GODDAMMIT, ANSWER ME YOU LITTLE SHIT!" howled 8-Ball.

As Bill flinched, a hand reached into view and snatched the webcam off the desk. "I think that's enough," said a voice from somewhere overhead, as the viewscreen's perspective juddered wildly.

Next thing he knew, 8-Ball found himself staring into the face of another human – this one a gangly young man of about eighteen: presumably this was a member of Bill's new biological family, for he had the same skinny build and muddy brown hair… and yet there was something about the square jaw and the dark eyes that immediately set off another shiver of déjà vu.

Then, as the webcam settled, a few errant strands of hair across the young man's forehead parted like a curtain – and suddenly, the Henchmaniac realized exactly who this was.

"Pine Tree," he hissed.

The Other Dipper Pines smiled. "Took you long enough, didn't it?"

"_You're _Bill's new family? _YOU?!_ You of all people-_" _8-Ball stopped in mid-sentence, almost too angry for coherent speech. "You did this just to spite us," he hissed at last. "You accepted him in just so you could bring Bill Cipher low, didn't you? Admit it! You did this just so you could have the last laugh!"

"You really do have a lot of trouble getting human motives, don't you? Okay, I'll make it simple for you: first of all, this wasn't the Bill I ran into back when I was twelve years old, remember? I'm not the version of Dipper you tried to hunt down and eat six years ago. I don't have any motivation to do anything to you or the Henchmaniacs because we're from a completely different multiverse. Plus, even if I did have a reason to hate you, you're locked away in the Nightmare Realm and your last bit of access to the outside world just got cut off; right now, you and the other Henchmaniacs are about as dangerous as the average chia pet, so I've got no reason to play emotional games with you out of spite. Got it?"

"Pine Tree, if you seriously think I'd accept you taking in Bill out of the so-called goodness of your heart-"

"His name is Marcus, 8-Ball," said Other Dipper coldly. "He's my little brother now, and there's nothing you can do about it: as far as I'm concerned, Bill Cipher died a long time ago."

The camera panned across the room, briefly focussing on the shaken-looking figure of Marcus Pines, who was now being given a reassuring hug by a tall, willowy brunette in a vividly-coloured sweater. Even without the braces, there was no mistaking Mabel Pines.

Not for the first time that day, 8-Ball could only wonder how the hell he'd ended up in a position to watch his ex-boss being given a cuddle by an alternate version of one of his greatest enemies. But then again, he'd been wondering that for several days in a row by now: somehow, one of the best mercenaries in the Multiverse had been outwitted by a twelve-year-old with a room-temperature IQ and a lurid obsession with sweaters, and the foolproof plan to extinguish the human race and make Mabel suffer for all eternity had long since vanished down the plughole. By all accounts, the Forger Wasps had gone in the same direction. How could this have happened? How was it possible for this to have gone so horribly wrong when he'd had every chance of victory in his hands?

"What do you hope to get out of this, then?" he demanded. "What do you want to use him for? How are you supposed to profit from being his brother?!"

Other Dipper sighed. "Have you ever heard the saying 'if you have to ask, you'll never know'? You've been a Henchmaniac for too long, 8-Ball: you're still thinking the same way even though your boss is gone forever. If you'd ever gotten out of your own comfort zone for a little while, you might have actually realized what a waste of your time this whole revenge plan was, or how stupid it was to leave all the planning up to someone else. But I guess if you don't get why we accept Marcus, you won't understand that either… so I guess it's time we said goodbye."

He reached for the off-switch, only to be cut off by a frenzied howl from 8-Ball. "DON'T YOU DARE! _DON'T YOU EVEN THINK OF DOING THAT! _WE'RE NOT FINISHED YET, PINE TREE!"

The alternate Dipper Pines gave 8-Ball a pitying look. "We were finished six years ago, pal," he said wearily. "Even if you're not the same Henchmaniac who tried to kill me and eat me when I was a kid, you're still nothing to me: I've grown up since then; I've seen weirder and nastier things than you can even think of, and I've met even worse people than you. You were never that special, 8-Ball, but now you're not even that. I'd forgotten all about you up until Axolotl told us what you tried to do, and once this is over, I'll probably forget about you all over again. Goodbye, 8-Ball: it's been unemotional."

And with that, he severed the connection, leaving the viewscreen blank. As if to add insult to injury, the bank's emissary didn't reappear, no doubt having made his excuses and cut his own connection while 8-Ball had been preoccupied with Bill and Pine Tree.

For almost a full minute, 8-Ball could only stare in bewilderment at the now-inactive communication module. Right now, this was one of the few guaranteed means of reaching the outside world via the multiversal wireless, but without currency or anything to barter with, nobody would even give him the time of day: how could he convince anyone to work for him now? Who would agree to the near-impossible stakes of taking revenge on the Pines brats without the promise of a reward?

But maybe he'd been thinking too small-scale: what if he'd been wrong when he'd decided that revenge was the only possible outcome? What if Weirdmageddon had been within his reach all along? True, he didn't have the power to contact mortals in dreams or visions like Bill had, but with some creative signalling, he might be able to issue messages to primitive worlds across the multiverse – enough to communicate with him and trick them into following his orders. Yes, yes, this sounded quite possible…

And it was at that moment that, just as 8-Ball was starting to feel good about himself again, that he realized that he was standing in a rather sizeable shadow. Slowly turning around, he looked up in terror to find himself staring into the blazing eyes of Pyronica; with her body ablaze with living flame and every surviving member of the Henchmaniacs at her back, she was easily the most terrifying sight that 8-Ball had seen in a long while.

"You little _bastard,"_ she growled. "You've been hiding this from us all this time – a link to the outside world and the funds that could've broken us out of the Nightmare Realm – but instead you used it for this!"

8-Ball tried and failed to look innocent. "Uh, what? What did I do? What did I use what for?"

"_THIS_, YOU BILLIARD-BRAINED CHIMP!"

She drew a battered phone from her purse and waved it furiously in his face; as hard as it was for him to focus on the wildly blurring screen, it was clear that she'd been keeping an eye on social media throughout their time in exile. No doubt, she'd seen everything of Mabel's humiliating victory, including the part where she'd clearly been seen talking to 8-Ball.

This was even worse than he'd feared: up until Grey's defeat, 8-Ball had been worried sick that the other Henchmaniacs might find out about his plan for revenge and try to stop it, or worse still, to seize control of Bill's resources for their own harebrained scheme to start Weirdmageddon 2.0… but now that he'd realized his mistake and was ready to try something new, they would have different intentions altogether. Now they'd be out for revenge of their own.

"Idiot," snapped Pyronica. "You absolute gimboid cretin. You've sunk us completely, you know that? You've screwed every last one of us from asshole to breakfast."

"Look, guys, I know this seems bad-"

"Who do ya think's going to help us now, genius?" Teeth chattered angrily. "Now that you've sprayed this story all over the multiversal internet like shit through a hose, we're persona non-grata everywhere!"

"But-"

"Even if we had the money to pay for a way out, nobody'd take it! We're screwed thanks to you!"

There was an angry rumble from the crowd as they began fanning out, slowly surrounding him.

8-Ball laughed nervously. "I know I've made a few mistakes here and there, guys, but I promise you I've got something new: all we've got to do is find a way of contacting a primitive world and getting them to reach our frequency."

"And how are we supposed to do _that,_ genius?" sneered Amorphous Shape.

"Well, all we have to do is to send the messages through advanced dimensions and bounce them off-"

From somewhere at the back of Pyronica's throat, there issued the sound of a million furnaces erupting life at once. "They're scanning our broadcasts now, asshat! You think the most advanced societies in the multiverse are just going to sit by and let us use them as signal boosters? You think _Axolotl's _going to let that happen?"

"Just listen to me for a sec, it's really simple: we can have anything we want this way! All we've got to do is find someone just clever enough to give us a signal booster and just dumb enough to hear us out: I mean, back when I was still free, I met a cabal of shark-people with lamprey wives who-"

"No, I think I've heard enough."

And with that, Pyronica drew her fist back and slugged 8-Ball hard in the jaw: the impact alone sent his eyes spinning in different directions, and left several teeth hurtling out of his mouth like misfired rockets, but the heat of her flame-wreathed fist nearly scorched the skin clean off his face. Dazed, he tried to retaliate, only for Teeth to charge in from the left and bite down hard on his arm with a crunch of shattering elbows; as he began the process of deboning the limb with his incisors, Hectorgon shot at 8-Ball from the right, dealing him a stunning blow to the skull, while Amorphous Shape and Keyhole pummelled him brutally in the stomach.

By that point, 8-Ball was almost managing to power through the pain, and now drew on the power of the Weirdness around him as best as he could, forcing himself to grow even taller than ever before. Hopefully, if he could make himself big and strong enough, he could force the other Henchmaniacs to cooperate with him – or at the very least to force them to back down long enough to get started on the plan.

And it was then that Xanthar put down his head and changed; though he hadn't enhanced his own impressive physique, he was still big enough to smash into 8-Ball's face like a sledgehammer, crumpling it like a empty soda can under a steamroller. Punch-drunk from the collision, 8-Ball groaned, wobbled, swayed and finally collapsed like a felled tree – landing squarely on top of the communications module, squashing it flatter than a pancake.

But of course, 8-Ball wasn't in a position to notice his last hope vanishing down the U-Bend.

He was too busy getting his head ripped off.

* * *

Early evening found Dipper and Mabel sitting out on the roof of the Mystery Shack with Waddles at their side, drinking Pitt Cola and watching the sunset as they whiled away the hours of their second-last day in Gravity Falls. Sometimes they talked; sometimes they worked on one of their many projects – Dipper his writing, Mabel her knitting; more often than not, they simply sat back and looked on contentedly as the newly-restored Gravity Falls basked in the glow of the setting sun.

It had taken a day or so for the townsfolk to return to their usual routines, but by now it was clear that Gravity Falls was healing.

It had required a lot of effort and more than a little bit of technology purloined from Grey's utility belt, but slowly the signs of the Forger Wasps' brief reign of terror were being erased. Just as they had in the wake of Weirdmageddon, the townsfolk had rolled up their collective sleeves and went to work in sweeping up what little remained of the world-destroying threat: roadblocks were disassembled, modified cars were sold or repurposed, fortifications were dismantled, broken windows and kicked-down doorways were replaced, and the clothes that had been discarded during the infestations had been returned to their rightful owners. For maybe the third time that year, the Mystery Shack had been restored to its former glory and the old tourist trap was back in business. Even the flag of the new empire had been taken down from the flagpole and ripped to shreds. Soon, it would be as if the conquest of Gravity Falls had never happened, and the events of the last week or so had been nothing more than a fleeting dream.

Thankfully, the memories left in their wake were limited and not immensely traumatizing, so once again the people of Gravity Falls could carry on with their lives as they always had, uninterrupted by the Weirdness they lived amongst and occasionally blundered into. Mayor Cutebiker was decreeing that this was another incident that everyone should just put into the back of their minds, and having no overwhelming reason to disagree with him, the people did so. And so far, those of them who'd seen enough of Mabel's memories to recall her deal with Bill had forgiven her very quickly; maybe being connected to Mabel's brain had made them sympathetic to her point of view, or maybe Gravity Falls simply didn't have the capacity to hold a grudge. Whatever the case, her secret was out and now completely irrelevant, and Mabel couldn't have been happier.

And if anything, the supernatural residents adjusted even quicker: once they'd returned to their usual forms, they went right back to their daily pursuits amidst the forests and corners of the town, fighting, stealing, feasting and indulging in much stranger hobbies by far, scarcely even bothering to remember that they'd been transformed into a different species for the last few days (though in the case of the unicorns, that might have been out of sheer embarrassment).

Now the final stage of recovery was ready to begin: tomorrow morning, Dipper and Mabel would finally celebrate their thirteenth birthdays, and just about everyone in town was invited. It was shaping up to be a momentous day: Soos was hoping to make the day a bit more festive with a few homemade fireworks, McGucket was bringing along some of his latest inventions to make the party even livelier, and Pacifica was going to be attending as Dippers new girlfriend. Meanwhile, Mabel could already tell that Grunkle Ford was planning to spring something special on Grunkle Stan, and given that they'd enjoyed a renewed friendship ever since Bill Cipher had bit the dust, she couldn't wait to see what it was.

It would be their last hurrah in Gravity Falls, for the two were to be sent home not long afterwards; back to Piedmont, back to their parents, back to school (high school in this case), and back into total normality. Until their next visit to Gravity Falls, all the magic and strangeness would be out of their lives… and though Mabel was a little sad to leave it all behind, she was just glad to be able to return home at all.

For the longest time, she'd been convinced that the only way she'd ever see Mom and Dad again was when the Forger Wasps finally invaded California, and the fact that she'd _somehow_ managed to defeat the rotten bugs against all odds had left her almost levitating with mingled joy and relief; she was going home _her_ way, and she'd be able to actually look her parents in the eye, even after all the questionable things she'd done this summer. True, it would definitely be strange for her and Dipper return to their ordinary home lives after spending an entire summer among weirdness, and given that they probably wouldn't be able to explain any of it to Mom and Dad without sounding completely crazy… but something told her that Dipper would find a way.

Already, he was jotting down the first passages of a new journal, with additional details supplied by Mabel. Maybe one day, with a little help from Mabel and Grunkle Ford, Dipper would be the one who finally introduced the rest of the world to the wonders of Gravity Falls… but until then, the stories of their adventures would remain just that, a series of imaginary anecdotes shared with mom and dad, and occasionally with the teachers when the time came for a bit of creative writing… and of course, with Pacifica – for the two of them had already promised to remain in contact via email.

As for Mabel, she was busy with her knitting, occasionally stopping to pat Waddles or exchange jokes with Dipper. By now, she'd worked out the best possible design for her new sweater, and it involved wasps: orange and black for colour, and a wasp being crushed by a flyswatter on the front. She had her own ways of commemorating their many adventures and their many victories, but she didn't need to share them with the world; she didn't need any more validation – she'd been forgiven by her brother, her Grunkles and everyone in Gravity Falls.

For the first time in what felt like years, she could look upon the future with total confidence. No matter what happened next, she'd be happy with it: she had her brother, she had Waddles, she had her art, and she had her family. As far as she was concerned, she had everything she could possibly want.

And so, it was with a sense of utter calm and unshakable peace that sat back, smiled and absently wondered what had become of the Grey Professional…

* * *

Grey sighed deeply and tried not to use any of his more diabolical expletives.

He had only been on this godforsaken rock for about a day and a half, and already he was sick of it. The weather was cold, the food was terrible, the refugees were annoying as fuck, the defenders were barely competent, the constant sound of gunfire kept him up at night, and the moaning zombies outside made him yearn for the comparative subtlety of the Forger Wasps.

Stanford Pines had been very careful in selecting the dimension that had become Grey's prison: he'd made sure to send him to a universe where the laws of physics were as hospitable as possible and set him on a planet with a breathable atmosphere and edible food. Unfortunately, though his safety had been the greatest consideration, his comfort hadn't: once the old bastard had determined that the dimensional teleporter wasn't going to drop his prisoner in an open volcano or anything like that, he'd selected the landing ground entirely at random, and by sheer bad luck, Grey had wound up in a wretched zombie-infested bolthole on some half-forgotten little island just off the coast of Maine.

Having narrowly made it to safety after a very hasty sprint out of the Wendigo-infested forests, he was currently sheltering in the local Sheriff's Office with all the other survivors from around the town, and with the shambling dead constantly besieging the place, the situation was tense even without the crab-clawed men lurching up from the beach to command the zombie hordes. Since supply runs were so dangerous, even on the rare occasions that the zombie army could be trimmed down to manageable level, creature comforts were all but impossible: his last meal had been a can of soup heated up on a camping stove and shared with two other people; his bed was a sleeping bag hidden in one of the cells; the best source of heat was a makeshift burn barrel; the only entertainment was scavenged DVDs played on a battered laptop, and the occasional Youtube video on the days when the Internets was actually working… and the less said about the bathrooms, the better.

But he could have lived with it. He could have lived with _all _of it – the cold, the damp, the cramped conditions, the terrible food, the looming threat of death, the incomparable smell, the annoying locals, the noise, the commotion, the zombies, the bewildering array of visitors, and the fact that he had none of his gear and a condition that only made his life harder.

He could even cope with the fact that he'd somehow ended up in yet another small town in the middle of nowhere with more supernatural activity than collective brain cells.

What he couldn't stand was the pitying.

By now, the Queen Wasp still occupying his body had learned to conserve her strength and was often keeping him in Mabel form for longer periods of time – sometimes up to five hours. She still couldn't transform him all the way, nor could it keep him that way, but that didn't stop her from trying. Every few hours or so, Grey would shrink down into the form of a child, whimpering and convulsing in pain every step of the way, and would remain shrunken until the Queen finally ran out of energy and let him revert to his normal form. It had been a nasty shock for the defenders at the Sheriff's office to see him transform for the first time, but once they had recovered from the sight, everyone wanted to reassure him: everyone and their mother wanted to give him a hug and tell him it was going to be alright, or to pity him for whatever curse they thought he'd been lumbered with, or maybe just to keep as far from the action as possible.

Time and again, he'd tried to tell them that he'd be at least somewhat useful in combat, for he could still fire a gun and fight in hand-to-hand combat if need be – after all, it wasn't as if the Queen was stupid enough to transform him when he was in the middle of battle. And it wasn't that he particularly give a shit about any of these contemptible little rats, it was just that he would rather have actually done something productive with his time; besides, shooting a few zombies would have at least made him feel better about himself. But nobody would listen: half the defenders treated him like an invalid, and the others acted as though he really was just a child who happened to spend the majority of his time impersonating an adult. It was nothing short of humiliating, and the fact that he would occasionally blurt out things that the real Mabel would have said – courtesy of the Queen trying to fill his brain with her memories – only made it all the more embarrassing.

Worse still, the Queen seemed to agree with the defenders. She hadn't fully converted to reading his memories instead of his senses, so she knew exactly when he was planning to make a break for the door; every time he tried to escape or pick up a gun, she would transform Grey just long enough for someone to subdue him and drag him back to safety.

But then again, even if he could escape, where would he go? This place was completely cut off from the mainland: by all accounts, the Fog that now surrounded the island was effectively impassable, and anyone who tried to leave by the bridge or by boat was usually found dead on the beach sometime later. No aircraft existed except in the hands of "the company men" hiding out north of the island lone airport, and they were apparently too trigger-happy to cooperate. And though there'd apparently been friendlier visitors to the island, but they had a completely method of getting past the Fog – one that apparently worked only for them.

In other words, Grey was now a prisoner of this dimension _and _of this putrid heap of seaweed-strewn rocks.

This was where his life was going to end: he'd started out as a nobleman of 19th-century Florence, abducted by aliens and led out into the multiverse, the first human to travel beyond his dimension; he'd been a special guest of the Retribution Squad, offered membership as a reward for his brilliance in the art of revenge; he'd been a transhuman, modified with the subtle technologies of the most advanced universes in reach and given a lifespan greater than any human of his universe would ever know; he'd been an avenger for the richest men and women and nonspecific entities of the multiverse, proving himself a thousand times over; he'd been a reformer, helping to cull the unworthy from the ranks of the Retribution Squad, even making his mark permanent by giving his the organization his family motto; he'd been the greatest champion the revengers of the multiverse had ever known.

And now he was going to be spending the rest of his life in Maine.

Fucking _Maine,_ of all places!

Sighing once again, he sat back to watch as the latest round of "visitors" tramped into the office, ready to receive yet another welcoming speech from the Sheriff.

They were an odd bunch, to say the least, especially when it came to their clothes: they wore a bewildering array of tuxedos, ceremonial masks, industrial aprons and gloves, business suits, cowboy hats, fetish gear, military-style uniforms in all the colours of the rainbow, gas masks, ninja costumes, convict jumpsuits, hoodies, laurel wreaths, lab coats, jack-o-lantern masks, Santa costumes, battered top hats and ragged jackets, eyepatches, antique armour, scarlet greatcoats, pig masks, hazmat suits, jingasas, mascot outfits, tricorns, straightjackets, insectoid headdresses, pointed wizard's hats, gleaming black jackets with luminescent gold shirts, bell toppers strung with tentacles or swarming with snowflakes, halos, devil horns, kilts, tinfoil hats, monocles, pickelhaubes, futuristic armour plating that glowed in the afternoon gloom… there was even a man wandering around in a shimmering gold tux and top hat among the current bunch, and he'd arrived on a hoverboard for good measure.

And assuming they weren't wearing even stranger makeup for good measure, they often brought along pets: dogs, cats, birds, giant insects, flying octopi, robot spiders, miniature demons, tiny golems… once, Grey had even saw a tiny ghost kitten flitting in and out of reality as it followed its master into the office.

At first, he hadn't known what to make of the visitors, especially given that they rarely spoke and certainly not to him, but the visitors had quickly proved themselves more than prepared to survive anything and everything the island had thrown at them.

They were equipped with an impressive array of strange and otherworldly powers, throwing balls of fire, teleporting, cutting through solid steel and tossing lightning bolts easier than blinking; he didn't recognize the precise source these abilities, but given that many were armed with spellbooks, dolls and ornamental shields, he had to presume it was magical in nature rather than technological. However they did it, they were good at it. No matter the odds, no matter what errands they'd been sent on, they'd always returned alive and unharmed: they'd helped out at the local church, they'd done a bit of detective work for the local fortune teller, they'd supported the few residents who hadn't left for the Sheriff's office, they'd done a few odd jobs for the Wabanaki at the foot of the mountain, and according to a few rumours around the office they'd even been seen lending a hand at the mysterious academy to the south.

In the last few months, the odd visitors had kept this sorry little community supplied with food, medicine and ammunition – sometimes even descending into the secret paths back to the world to buy takeaway dinners for anyone wanting a change from canned soup. Nobody knew what any of the visitors wanted out of Kingsmouth, and the visitors themselves certainly weren't in the mood to explain it, but from atop the office, he'd seen them fighting off dozens of zombies at a time – and sometimes doing battle with much bigger and more dangerous foes; according to some of the sentries, there'd even been a time when a golem the size a skyscraper had abruptly lurched out of the Fog and been brought down by an army of several hundred visitors.

Today, it was a smaller group in attendance, and for some reason, they didn't seem quite as unified today: one of them, a rather scrawny woman in a dazzling white uniform and a blue beret, had immediately turned around and left the moment she realized that the other visitors had followed her into the office. Grey couldn't tell if this was out hatred or fear, for the woman's face was hidden by an imposing white mask with thick round lenses for eyes and a long, beaklike nose.

Whatever the case, the "plague doctor" had hurried out and left only confused stares in her wake.

But as the team of becostumed misfits were briefed by Sheriff Bannerman, an idea suddenly struck Grey: what if these mages (or whatever they were) could help him somehow?

They had a form of magic quite outside the realms of his experience, but whatever powered their abilities – be it a genetic feature or a supernatural imbuement – it had to be something impressive. But even if they didn't have the ability to remove the Queen from his body, they might at least have the contacts to point him in the right direction… and at the very least, they might be able to get him off this island and back to civilization, where he could carry out an investigation of his own.

Of course, before he could start making overtures to these oddballs, he'd have to learn a little more about them. After all, their motives were completely unknown, and if they were to betray him – for whatever reason – he was at a serious disadvantage: without his gear and mistifier, he'd have no way of standing up to their magic.

So it was time to do a little research.

At that point, the sheriff's gormless deputy had stopped by to pick up some new boxes of ammo for the defenders; Grey had seen how easily the dimwit had mixed with the visitors, even giving some of the missions to deal with the monsters on the beach, so perhaps he knew something about the strangers.

So, sidling up, he tapped the deputy on the shoulder and asked, "Who _are_ all these people who keep visiting?"

The deputy shrugged. "Aw, you know how it is: something weird crops up here and folks from outta town take an interest. We still don't know the whole story – these guys keep their cards close to their chests, y'know – but there's whole teams sponsoring 'em: red team, blue team, green team… there's even a white team out there, those guys with the snappy uniforms and the blue berets."

_Okay… not exactly informative, but we're off to a good start._

"But why have they got all these powers?" Grey continued. "I mean, it's gotta be magic, but how did they end up learning to use it?"

"From what I hear, it's all down to Bees."

Grey blinked in confusion, feeling the Queen suddenly writhe in disgust. "Beg pardon?"

"Bees, man. They get their powers from bees."

"…in what way."

"The story goes that they swallowed magical bees in their sleep; each one of them's got a magical bee rattling around inside of 'em, permanently bonded to their bodies the way I hear it. That's what gives them their powers."

The Grey Professional's mind lurched in confusion.

"Bees?" he echoed.

Inside him, the Queen squirmed in sudden hatred, recoiling at the very idea of Bees mimicking the Forger Wasp.

And at once, Grey knew it'd be pointless trying to make an alliance: even if there was some chance that these Bee-people could help him, there was no getting past the fact that the Queen wouldn't let him get anywhere near them. After all, wasps didn't generally get along with bees, and the Forger Wasps still maintained just enough DNA from their insect forebears to regard with instinctive disgust – not enough to attack on sight, but certainly enough to make him transform again. And that would be all the Queen needed to do to keep him away from help.

"That's right," said the deputy, clearly not noticing that his audience was beginning to lose its grip on its collective sanity. "They've got bees inside 'em."

There was a bewildered silence, broken only by the sound of Grey's well-worn credulity finally snapping clean in half and taking a sizeable chunk of what remained of his sanity with it.

After all he'd seen and heard, this was the most ridiculous revelation of them – and by far the most unwanted. Maybe it was just the prospect of being around _more_ supernatural parasites, maybe it was the Queen's own aversion to these creatures, or maybe it was just the weight of everything he'd experienced finally squishing his composure to a pulp; one way or the other, he suddenly couldn't stop himself from screaming.

"Bees?" he repeated, laughing incredulously. "_Bees? _BEES?! _FUCKING BEES!? AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH-"_

* * *

On top of the office building, the woman in the plague doctor's mask looked up in confusion at the screams from below, but just as quickly dismissed them. She had more important things to do than attend to one man's mental breakdown.

Satisfied that nobody had followed her this far, the woman in in the plague doctor's mask leapt from the roof and galloped away into the evening shadows, heading south towards the mouth of hell on the horizon, leaving the maddened screams of the Grey Professional far behind her.

In a matter of minutes, she'd forgotten all about him.

In a matter of months, the rest of the multiverse had done the same.

THE END


End file.
